Revelations (prompt fill)
by GotchaYouLilDirtbag
Summary: Tumblr Prompt fill (or attempt): Castle has been hiding his hearing loss. His secret is revealed during a bust gone wrong. Set in the early part of the series. Thank you to everyone who is reading, following and reviewing.
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone. My first go at a Prompt. This one was put up a while ago, about Castle having somehow been able to hide the fact that he is deaf (partially in my fic) from anyone outside his family, but it suddenly all comes out when a bust goes wrong. My fic is in two parts. The first is from Castle's point of view, and the second from Beckett's. I hope it works. The second part will be out next week - its mostly written, just have to tweak it a bit because its not quite coming together. Any input from readers would be appreciated.

Please R&R. Hope you like it.

Revelations - part one.

Consciousness, when it returned, was slow. He felt himself, like an ink drop slowly blooming through a cup of water, gradually expanding back across his own mind, his body, until he was once more Rick. More or less. And with that return to awareness he could feel every cell weighted down with a spreading, melting sort of fatigue that he hadn't experienced since those endless nights with Alexis feverishly cutting teeth, followed by long long days of Gina and her never ending string of imminent deadlines. Even his eyelids were too much of a burden to lift. So he lay there against his pillow, stuporous with exhaustion and waited to fall back asleep.

 _Mother would wake him if Alexis started fretting again._

He suddenly fancied he could hear his daughter burble against his side, her words a lovely little blurry trickle of bells cascading and tumbling happily against his skin. He felt his chest tighten with feeling. A smile pushed at his lips.

"Pum-kin..."

He drifted again...

Voices.

Beckett. She was nearby, talking seriously, earnestly and straight with someone. He didn't open his eyes, but listened with all of his attention enjoying the feeling, that small thrilled glow, that ignited whenever she was nearby. He could clearly remember when that spark of closeness shifted from being purely carnal to something more. It was a day, same as any other, as he barreled into the 12th with a coffee that wasn't his and saw her already at her desk leaning over an open file folder. There was nothing different about the way they traded a witticism as he thunked her coffee lightly on to the same ring stained spot that he always did, nor how he slid home into the chair he had taken as his months ago, and swung it onto just the right angle so that he could see all of her face and wouldn't miss a word. But then it just happened. Just like that. In that one moment everything tumbling and clicking into place like the last twists on a rubik's cube. All his colours just slid home and everything changed. Everything. From that moment, he was enthralled. She wasn't his muse, she was just... his. Just like that.

But now, he floated away again listening, listening.

When he woke next, people were talking nearby. Women people. The soft timbre of their speech added an interesting layer to the inertia he was still stuck in, but he felt more focused this time, and automatically started searching for familiar patterns to decipher what they were saying. No matter how hard he tried though, the sounds slithered and slipped formlessly through the grasping fingers of his mind and the strain of the effort grew a piercing ache in his temples. He recoiled from the exertion and tried to melt back into his pillow. Too late, too late. The pain in his head, pricked the passive bubble he was floating in and a sudden new rush of awareness flooded in. A sharper, more penetrating, more demanding intrusion of consciousness this time. And with it: pain.

Pain in his head, cheek, eye, ribs and right arm. Pain that was throbbing and steady, dull and sharp. And thirst. Thirst. And more. A vaguely familiar and ominously astringent chemical smell. And unwanted cold and cramping confinement along each limb. This was not home. This was not his bed.

Not his bed!

With a sharp inhalation, he was awake. His previously heavy eyelids, flicked open with a snap. Not his room. Not his bed. He sleep on an elevation. He didn't have to be crammed into his own bed with his knees making hills in a too thin white cotton blanket, just to fit onto the mattress. So, not his bed. No. He looked down. That too cold blanket reached his waist, but above it there was white cotton shirt across his chest. Tight shirt. No. Wait. A band of painful pressure across his ribs, under the shirt. Bandages? His left arm was pressing against the cold metal rails along one side of the bed, the other arm bound down with something. More Bandages? Bloody knuckles on each hand. Lip, cheekbone, ear all throbbing with a taut swollen pain. Headache. And that smell...

Oh.

OK. Got it now.

Hospital.

Oh, hospital. Oh. And he remembered it all with a rubber band snap and a wince. The raid. The stink of weed. So much weed. His head had been swimming with it. Then the very very big guy, with fists like a gorilla, sneaking up on Beckett. The fight. Winning the fight. Maybe. No, he did win it, he was sure. Yeah, he must have. Ryan and Espo had given him the thumbs up from across the room so he must have won. Then... Then... Nothing. He frowned, thinking, but nothing more came to mind.

Voices interrupted his train of thought. The women. And oh, not just any women, but his mother and Kate Beckett. Deep in conversation with their backs to him. Beckett, his eyes lingered, was still wearing the brown leather jacket and simple elastic hair tie she had been wearing at the time of the raid. There was dust on her shoulders and right arm. An old spiderweb was tangled in her hair. And his mother was wearing one of his rain jackets that he kept by the door - the one she was always telling him to send to the dump before a family of rats moved into it. He pursed his lips. So a hasty exit from the loft to the hospital, and Kate had not been back to the precinct long enough to pick the remnants of the bust from her clothes and hair. He smiled. Well, enough waiting, it was time to alert them that the hero of the hour was awake and thirsty enough to drain a street hydrant, but then he heard his mother's distinctive inflection give voice to that which usually heralded her final argument-ending proclamation: "Men!" The intonation was unmistakable despite the fact that she had her back to him. Uh oh. He glanced at Beckett, but the detective still had her face turned away and he couldn't pick up enough of her murmur to put the pieces together. One thing he did know though, was that the 'hero of the hour' was going to get a chewing out before the parade. If only Beckett would turn just a bit more to the right he could find out what she was saying and...

Oh no.

Oh no. It suddenly made sense. Oh no. He raised his uninjured arm and touched his fingertips to his ear, though really it was unnecessary to check. But then it was too late. They had realised he was awake. He felt the bed dip and wobble and familiar fingers curled their tips under his chin, pressing in until he lifted his head. He dropped his hand to his lap.

"Richard, oh Richard!" His mother's drawn face was close to his. Her pale unmade lips forming the words with a subtle telling tremor. "How are you feeling darling? Does anything hurt? Do you need the doctor?"

"I'm ok mother." His throat felt pinched and stripped of all moisture. His head was throbbing. "I'm fine." He risked a glance to the foot of the bed, not quite yet daring to lift his gaze to make eye contact. And there was his detective. He stared at her sky blue shirt, dusty and smeared with something gritty, as it tucked in to the waistband of her jeans, near the police badge clipped into her belt, and then the pearly buttons rising up the centre line of her body, rising and falling over prose inspiring contours. He couldn't help what happened next. His eyes continued travelling upwards and he sneaked a glance at her face. Gorgeous, high cheekbones, incredible eyes... Um, ok tight - suspect-to-be-interviewed eyes, and -

His mother hit him.

"Ow!" He yelped and looked back at his mother.

"Richard! What were you thinking? You could have been killed!" She thrust something into his free hand and he looked down at the two small skin coloured hearing aids in his palm. He jerked his fingers closed around them. Heat flicked at his throat and cheeks. He didn't dare move his eyes from his mother. "The doctor found one and the medics found the other at the house where you were with the police."

"Mom-" He admonished, suddenly equal parts rattled and guilty. His eyes involuntarily whipped towards Beckett and back. He moved too fast to get any clue as to what Beckett was thinking, but he didn't think he needed much data to make a pretty good guess.

"Oh, she knows Richard." He opened his mouth to, what?, protest? but his mother was on a roll, and showed him her palms. He was too mortified now to move. "Why didn't you tell her? Richard. No, no, don't start. I already know. Men!" She closed her eyes for the protracted moment it took for her to take a long long calming inhalation. She exhaled. "I am going to get the doctor back in here." She pushed up from the bed. "I suggest you take that time to explain and then apologise to Detective Beckett. You owe her that much. Richard - " the rest of that sentence was lost to him in a frustrated, shaken sigh. His mother left the room.

The silence that followed wasn't only physical. His mind was racing, everywhere, anywhere, nowhere. Something like panic added to the pain in his ribs, his breath felt hot in this throat. The hard plastic shell of the aids in his hand burned like hot coals. He was so consumed with the horror of it all that he jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Her hand. Hers. And then a blessed cup of water under his nose. He heard her say something, but couldn't make it out. Instead he drained the cup, grateful not just for the water, but the moment to try to compose himself.

"Thanks." He huffed once it was empty, and let her take it from him. This time he raised his eyes to follow her as she refilled the cup from the jug at the table side. How the hell did she make such a simple act look so graceful? Oh fuck. He squeezed his eyes closed for an intense second as the magnitude of this screw up slid home in one violent rush. He was finished with the 12th. Finished with Beckett. And someone was damn sure going to leak it to the press. The medical staff, the medics, someone on the force. Someone. All the years of care and deal making to keep it out of public record, trying to keep it about the writing.

She put the refilled cup back in his hand. He looked up at her, standing there. Yes. He owed her. Big time. He licked his lower lip.

"I-" He started. She waited, patient and in-control calm. He was all at once grateful and infuriated and scared out of his mind that she seemed to be granting him the space to get the words out, but it wasn't going to be without cost. She wasn't going to be giving him a free pass. This was going to cost. It was going to hurt. "I owe you an apology." She raised her eyebrows at him as she sat down on the plastic chair by the bedside, never breaking eye contact. His gaze darted between her lips and eyes.

"Yes, you do." She said with slow deliberation. "With holding that sort of information was dangerous Castle. Not just for you, but for all of us. We only work as a team if we know each other, if we are honest with each other. What happened in that house-" She paused and he could see the memory was still barbed. He felt himself die a bit more inside. "You were just lucky you weren't killed."

Hang on - "No, but I got him. That guy that was coming up behind you. The King Kong-godzilla lovechild - "

"Castle." She interrupted him. Clearly there was more to the story than he recalled. "There was more than one. You- Castle there was more than one of them. Yes, you _somehow_ got on top of the first guy, but the other one.. You didn't even know he was there. Your hearing aides were knocked out during the fight. Espo and Ryan tried to warn you about the other guy, but you couldn't hear them Castle. It was just plain dumb luck that the bullet went wide and Ryan was able to take him down."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'." She pursed her lips, thinking, considering. "There was no way I could get there in time. And if Ryan hadn't been quick enough, I wouldn't be here talking to you I would be at the loft right now explaining to your mother and daughter that their son and father would not be coming home." He had nothing to say to that. Nor anything to sooth the tightly held distress he could clearly see flickering in her eyes, in the strained lines around her mouth. God, he had totally screwed up. And Ryan had had to kill someone that maybe he may not otherwise have had to shoot. God. Right now, he would sell his soul to the devil to go back and slap that wise ass grinning idiot who had blithely ticked the 'nothing to declare' box on the Existing Medical Condition section of the NYPD consent and waiver forms.

"I didn't," He cleared his throat. "I didn't think about that."

"No. You didn't." She worked that silence again and his gaze slid down to the water in his hand. Faint waves distorted the surface. Her heard her voice, the soft sounds slid like a balm against his damaged ears. The guilt suddenly felt unbearable. But she spoke again and he knew he had to take whatever was coming next. He owed her that. He owed his mother. He owed Alexis. So he looked back.

"I'm sorry." He managed. His voice sounded like gravel in his own ears. "I am so so sorry Kate. I was stupid. I didn't want anyone to know. No one has ever _had_ to know before, and I just, I - I didn't want anyone at the 12th to know, the guys, you. I - I didn't want _you_ to know. It was a stupid, stupid badly thought out decision.

"And, I _do_ know what's coming next. I do. I deserve it. Could you tell the guys, Lanie, that I'm sorry. That I never meant for anyone to get hurt-"

"Castle. Stop!" Beckett interrupted him and he shut up. For the first time, for the last time maybe, he shut up like he should. She went on more gently than he deserved. "Just stop. There is a lot to talk about, a lot that is going to have to be dealt with, but right now Martha is coming back here with the doctor and Alexis is on her way to the hospital. And you have to rest." He watched her rise from the chair, took in that elegant economy of movement, the long slender lines and beautiful face. He tried to soak it in, tried to force an imprint of it into his mind, suspecting it would be the last time he would see it.

He nodded. And as if that was a cue, his mother sailed back in to the room towing a tall blond man sporting a stethoscope in her wake. It was all meaningless noise then. All background blather and rattling bed rails and the hell with the lot of it. He let it all go, let it all swirl around him, and instead watched Kate Beckett walk out the door.

End, part 1.


	2. Chapter 2

OK so things are getting a bit involved and I might be adding a few more chapters on to this story. Not sure what happened there... Hope you don't mind!

Also a huge thank you to everyone who has read, is following, and commenting on this fic. Its made my day(s). And its better than just about anything for keeping up the writing motivation!

Chapter 2

Kate was lost in thought, wrestling with the shock and the enormity of what the morning had exposed, and waiting by the elevator door near Castle's room, when a hand suddenly grasped her forearm. She almost jumped to the ceiling. Without thinking her hand dropped to her service weapon.

"Oh, I'm sorry Katherine. I didn't mean to scare you." Martha apologised. She released her grip like Kate was on fire, and slid the offending hand out of sight into her coat pocket. Castle's filthy old rain coat: it was huge on his mother. It rucked up over her forearms in billowing folds, ballooning out where it pressed up against the pockets where Martha had both her hands now hidden. It made the other woman look vulnerable and tiny, though she was hardly a head shorter than Kate herself, and the illusion drove home how badly the situation may have turned out. Castle had been _so_ lucky not to have been killed, to have left his mother and daughter mourning and alone in a huge unkind world.

"That's ok Martha." Kate said. Then she glanced back down the hall towards Castle's room, eyes widening, suddenly wondering why the woman had left her son. "Is something wrong with -?"

"What? Oh, no. No. The doctor is seeing to Richard. Seems they need privacy, even from his own mother. Anyway, darling, that's not why I followed you." Kate waited while Martha took a deep breath before plunging on. "Look, I know that Richard has made a terrible mistake in not being completely honest with you or your colleagues about his," She paused to look around the temporarily vacant hallway, then dropped to a whisper for her next word, "hearing. Sorry, old habits. We have had to be careful for so long, to keep it out of the press you see." She paused again. "I also know you have to do what you have to do, but please don't be too hard on him. These last months, working with you, have been the making of him. They really have. Oh don't get me wrong, he's been a wonderful father to Alexis, and though I do tease him, he has been good son. A good man. But, since he has been following you all around he's been, well, a different person. More focussed; more settled; more happy, than I have seen him in a long time."

Kate stared at her for a long moment. She was lost for words. Martha seized her arm again.

"I am not asking you to go against your better judgement Katherine, but please, if -."

"Martha, I can't hide -"

"No, no. I am not asking you to hide this from your colleagues. I know you have do what you have to do. But," and she sighed, this time with a theatrical flourish that was curiously self-depreciating and softened with feeling. "I am his mother and, for whatever that has been worth, I do love him and it is so important to him that this does not become widely known." And that he isn't hurt more than necessary, Kate read the unspoken subtext.

"Whatever happens, no one on my watch will be passing on any details about what has been," she said softly, and checked the corridor," revealed, to anyone. And no one is looking to make things worse than they have to be. Honestly, I don't know what Captain Montgomery is going to decide, but whatever the outcome, you have my word that it will be dealt with in the most discrete manner possible."

"Thank you." Martha smiled and there was kindness in it. And relief. And concern. And not just for Castle. There was more to this woman than met the eye, Kate decided. There was more to this entire story than met the eye too. It was one of the very few things that Kate would admit she shared with Castle, but where there was a mystery her curiosity, like his, was almost overwhelming. Martha suddenly let out an exasperated exhalation. "Oh where is this elevator? Honestly, I am sure we all waste years waiting for elevators. Ah, here it is."

"Where you going?" Kate asked.

"Oh, Richard has quite thoroughly destroyed his," she glanced around the corridor again, out of habit Kate now realised," you-know-whats. I told him I was going to fetch his other pair from the loft. And since I have been ejected from my son's room, now seemed like a good time to go."

"Let me drive you."

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose-"

"It's no imposition. Besides, I have some questions. Things I am going to need to know when I see my Captain."

CastleCastleCastleCastle

The drive to back to the Castle's loft was filled with slow moving traffic, but for once Kate was not particularly wanting to hurry. Beside her, Martha had shed Castle's coat and it was folded over in her lap.

"So, um, if you don't mind me asking, when did Cas- Rick lose his hearing? He wasn't born with it was he."

"You are right he wasn't. But oh, it was a long time ago now. He was ten." Martha's expression shadowed suddenly with memory. "It was terrible. Just terrible. It was a bad winter and Richard and two of his classmates contracted meningitis. Oh he was so ill Katherine. For a while the doctors-" She broke off suddenly. Covered for her slip with a small cough, and then ploughed on. "Well. It was a long time ago. But, it left him, us, with a lasting gift."

"I am so sorry Martha. I had no idea. How- how bad is it?" She asked. "Honestly, I had no idea. He doesn't seem to miss a moment of what is going on."

"I know. But that's Richard for you." She smiled, then sobered. "The doctors told us it was relatively mild and mostly to the higher frequencies, but it was within the range for needing some assistance. Ala: the hearing aids. Oh he's spent a small fortune on finding the smallest, least obtrusive kind , those ones that sit right inside the ear, but to be honest with you I am very surprised he was wearing them at all."

"Why wouldn't he be wearing them?"

"Oh, Katherine. Oh my dear. That first year after he was ill, he wouldn't wear them. The poor boy. He was so depressed. He just wouldn't wear them. He wouldn't co-operate with the doctors. And after a while he just started to withdraw. He wouldn't go to school. I didn't know what to do. We even tried seeing a psychologist, but that went nowhere." That didn't sound like her partner at all. Trying to relate what she was hearing with the happy, extroverted, fun-loving, ever curious Rick Castle was just impossible. That this had ever happened to him, that he ever became such an unhappy suffering child, even temporarily, made her feel ill. And she hadn't picked up any hint of it at all. Not one. Everything she thought she knew about that man was being turned on its head.

"But, something changed? What happened?" She prompted.

"To be honest I don't know what happened." Martha went on. "I was just so - I don't know. I was grasping at straws and one of Richard's school friends over in New Hampshire asked if he could come and stay for a few days. I sent him even though he didn't want to go and when he came back he was, he was different."

"Different how?"

"Well, after that long weekend he started wearing his hearing aids, he started co-operating with the doctors, the therapists. He started writing. He started reading Sherlock Holmes and drove me crazy trying to, what's that word, _deduce_ what I had been doing all day just by observing me as I came in the door. He would try to fool me into thinking that his hearing had returned sometimes and I can tell you, after a few months of all this _deducing_ , it was hard to believe it hadn't. He certainly fooled most people we met. And then he stopped wearing his aids again." He was still doing that too: observing, deducing, fooling the world. Only now he was making money out of it. And making the world think he was what he wasn't. That he was whole and hearty and a force to be reckoned with.

"He never told you want happened that weekend?"

"Oh, I asked, but he would just smile like he still does and change the subject. I guess running about in the woods really is as good a therapy as they say it is." She smiled and Kate returned it. "He's going to miss this you know."

"What?"

"This. Riding around in police cars. Solving crimes. You."

"Oh, I- Martha, it's not necessarily going to come to that, -" Beckett stumbled over her words, thrown. A blush was creeping up her throat, colouring her cheeks.

"But it will." Martha went on. "I know that Richard has his connections, but even the Mayor can't smooth over some things. Richard should have told you, but he's just so stubborn."

"He is that." Beckett murmured. For the rest of the short distance to the Castle home her mind was in a whirl. The anger, the sense of betrayal, that he had hidden something like this from her; something that had put himself in danger and had, by potential association, put her team at risk, had faded into the background. There was going to be fall out. Montgomery and her team had to know. To provide anything less than full disclosure to her team would be its own sort of betrayal. But now, hearing from Martha just what Castle had gone through, how hard he had tried to overcome what had happened to him, the pathway forward had just gotten a lot less clear. To be honest, the last thing she wanted to do was add to his burden. An image of him just now at the hospital miserable, hurting and jammed into that too small hospital gurney, holding the tattered remains of his dignity in the palm of one hand, came to her in a sudden charged rush. And the sudden urge to protect him that followed was equally unexpected and shocking.

She needed to talk it out with someone. Someone not yet involved in this morning's raid, someone who would be discreet and listen for friend in need. Someone who would understand, but tell it to her straight. After letting Martha out of the car, and finding a place to wait for her, Beckett pulled out her cell and thumbed in a number.

"Hey Lanie. I have to drop Castle's Mom into the hospital and go by the 12th to check in with Ryan and Espo on the Baxter case, but... after that... Are you free for lunch?"

CastleCastleCastleCastle

"Yo Beckett. How's Castle?" Esposito called out to Kate strode into the Bullpen and headed for her desk. The detective was standing with his partner near her murder board. Both men had files in their hands. "Dude took a pounding this morning."

"He's a bit banged up, but he'll be fine." She said. She poked at the inbox on her desk as cover to steal a glance at Montgomery's office. It was still empty. The relief that he hadn't returned from his meeting with the Mayor unexpectedly early, that she would not have to speak to him just yet, was almost physical. She felt instantly lighter, instantly more in the moment. "The doctors say they will release him tomorrow."

"Good to hear." Ryan nodded, looking genuinely happy to hear the news, but Kate didn't miss the pointed glance Ryan sent to Javi, nor Javi's emphatic head jerk back to get on with what was coming next. Kate felt her heart begin to drop. Ryan clutched at his folder. "Um, yeah, about that..."

"So how are we on the murder weapon?" She cut in, looking at the board, the array of photographs, scrawled hand writing and sticky notes were suddenly fascinating. She had hoped that neither of her colleagues had realised what had happened with Castle this morning, but there had been too many opportunities for them, between her partner's failure to react to their calls for him to watch out and then the medic finding that hearing aid, that it was not surprising that they had overheard or even seen too much not to know what was going on. Oh god, she did _not_ want to have this conversation before seeing Montgomery. The chances were good that the Captain was going to pull the plug on Castle's attachment to the 12th, to them, to her, and if he did then the only action left was to request that the real reason for his severance was kept from public knowledge. Though Ryan and Javi were hardly 'public', she knew that Castle would rather they thought he had left of his own accord.

"Boss." Ryan would not be diverted. "About the bust. Castle -"

"What about him? He's going to be fine. He's loving that he took down a perp during a police raid and is probably going to be living off that story for the next year-"

"I don't think so." Javi put in, clearly agitated at Ryan's indirect approach. He shot a reproachful glare at his partner. Kate bristled, but Javi barrelled right on. "Look, what my partner is _trying_ to say is that if Castle's gonna keep on riding with us, if he's gonna keep on stepping up like he did today, then he's got to get some training." Kate stared, stunned. Javi took a deep breath, and took on a faintly embarrassed look. He stepped closer. Glanced quickly around the bullpen and got conspiratorial. "OK, so, I'm only going to say this once and I will deny it if questioned in the future, but writer boy really stepped up today. He had your back. And, and ok, he's got some power there and good hands. But if he's gonna be part of the team, and not get himself killed, he has to get some training. You know, some hand to hand. Heart's only going to get him so far. And, so," Javi stepped back and thumbed his chest and Ryan's, "we figure that with a few mornings a week in the squad gym we can get him sorted out."

"We promise not to start on him until he's given the all clear by the docs." Ryan chipped in when Kate didn't respond. Clearly he had misinterpreted her silence as disapproval. She scrambled inside to get herself back together, blinked, and nodded. Somehow, seeing how they considered Castle such a part of their team, was making things so much worse.

"All right." Javi nodded, grinning. "We'll go easy on him until the doc says he's ok. But after that," Javi brought his fist and open hand together, his grin all teeth, "he's all ours."

She had to see Lanie. Now.

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

By the time his mother returned to his hospital room, Rick was feeling more awake but wishing he wasn't. Everything hurt. And if didn't hurt it was either itching or feeling cramped from being stuck in this damn bed. The doctor his mother had dragged into his room had been cool and impersonal in checking him over, which had been very welcome at the time. And he had a very precise way of speaking and enunciating which made it easy to follow as the medico rattled off the list of awesomely impressive sounding injuries as he completed his exam. Or it would have been awesomely impressive, if Rick could undo the last 12 hours, and if he could forget the all-business, too-calm way that Beckett had voiced her displeasure. She was only that calm when she was really truly angry and she had every right to be, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier to take. So he listened without his usual delight as the physician told him that he had a number of lacerations and contusions ( _note:_ _awesome words_ ) affecting both hands where they had slammed into the giant he had tackled, and one hairline fracture of a metacarpal bone in his right hand ( _notes:_ _boxer's fracture; and apparently he had slept through several exciting scans and x-rays_ ) which explained the splinting; a dramatic explosion of bruising all along the left side of his face ( _notes:_ _assailant right handed; fists the size of hubcaps_ ); more bruising to the central left side of his rib cage ( _notes:_ _the tight sensation had been discomfort under pain killers that were no longer doing their job_ ); and a concussion (notes: _grade 2 concussion; headache, missing time and confusion with no loss of consciousness; not so awesome_ ). The concussion was not considered particularly alarming, but because he had been unable to tell them his name or what had happened to him when the ambulance had arrived, the usual precautionary actions applied and they were keeping him in overnight.

"Was that clear Mr Castle? Do you need me to write it down or explain again?" The doctor asked, giving him a pointed look. It was the kind of too-meaningful gaze that Rick hadn't had to suffer for years prior to this travesty of a day and he pursed his lips to stop himself saying anything he would later regret. Age did bring some measure of control.

"No. Its fine." He said.

"All right. The nurse will be a long shortly to give you something for the pain. The buzzer is beside you should you need anything. Please do use it. Ok?"

"Fine."

The doctor left and he was alone.

He stared at the ceiling. The tired off-white cork panels, with their pitted moonscape surfaces, looked about as flat and worn out as he felt. He let his gaze wander. It was hard to fathom just how fast his life had just unravelled. In the predawn hours this morning, when everything was still as it should have been, he had suddenly had an epiphany about the Baxter case. The pieces had suddenly clicked into place and he knew, he just _knew_ , where the murder weapon was stashed. Rolling on a high wave he had forgone breakfast, phoned ahead for his and Beckett's coffee which he collected almost at a dead run, yelling out his apologies to those still waiting in the queue, as he raced through the coffee stand; he bounded into the elevator, and jiggled on his toes as it creaked too slow, too slow upward; and burst into the bullpen with a matador's flourish to take Beckett and anyone else within shouting distance blow-by-blow through his inspirational deduction. And Beckett had risen from her chair as he wove his narrative, walking them through his leaps and observations, until she took the stage along with her coffee and took over, making the same connections to race them across the finish line. It was like poetry. Like ballet. It was like... Like... Nothing he had ever experienced before joining the 12th. She was amazing. _They_ were amazing.

And her eyes were amazing.

Piercing hazel eyes, broadcasting a fierce and fearless intelligence. Eyes that, for that moment this morning, held his locked in a shared moment of guileless delight, and in the _sharing_ of that moment with another mind. For just those few seconds, before Lanie said something that broke it and brought a soft red tint to Beckett's face, it was the pure joy of connection with a like soul. He would never get over the shock of it, the intensity of that fleeting link. Never. And now. Now. He drew in a slow breath, ribs hitching on the pain that flared across his chest. And now it was all gone. He'd blown it.

"Dad!" And the room was abruptly filled with two red heads and one blond. The one who had yelped his name from across the room, unmistakable in its volume, took his entire attention and he reached out for her as she all but fell onto his right side and grabbed him round the neck. The pain that shot through him at the collision was barely a consideration as he reached around to hug his daughter close. He felt her breath hot against his skin and her voice muffled there was tense and strained.

"Oof! Pumpkin. I'm ok. I'm ok." Then the pain began to escalate. "OK. Ow. Ow, ow, not ok, not ok - "

"Oh, sorry. Dad. Sorry." Alexis, pulled back from her crushing embrace and hovered above him. Her normally pale skin looked almost porcelain with worry as her gaze roved over his face, lingering over the bruising. Her hands fluttered above his arm, wanting to touch him, but not wanting to add to the hurt. He reached across his body to take her hand in his unbroken one, and give it a reassuring squeeze. "Oh my god Dad! What happened?"

"It's ok." He forced a smile and did his best not to wince. "It looks much worse than it is. You should see the other guy!"

A hand suddenly grabbed his knee and he looked up at a blond woman who should definitely not be there: "You got into a fight?" Gina asked, raising a manicured eyebrow in disbelief. "What with, a truck?" Then Gina disappeared behind another red head in a confusing rush of movement that made his aching head spin.

"I'm sorry Richard, I tried to stop her." Martha said curtly. "Here you are." She proffered one of the hated objects and Rick had to let go of Alexis to take it and get it positioned in one ear. Then the next in the other. He scowled as he adjust the volume and came in part way through Gina's response.

"- tried to explain, Martha, I am not here to pester you son. I am here because I am getting calls." She met Rick's gaze and he knew; he knew why she was here. He gritted his teeth. "It's out Rick. It's out. Someone has talked to the media and now I am getting calls." He didn't need to ask what 'it' was.

"What have you told them?"

"I confirmed that you were in the hospital, but nothing else. You know I wouldn't do that without consulting with you first Rick." She looked hurt through the professional veneer. "We should have come out with it ourselves years ago. I told you. After the success of Storm it was the right-"

"There was no need for anyone to know then. There still isn't." Rick interrupted, and Gina glared. Gina was PR down to her very soul. She was damn good at the job too, but she was all about the sell all the time. When she had first found out about his hearing she had been all over him to tell the world. They had argued. A lot. He would sell more, he would have more interviews, more press in general if she could craft some rising-above story to sell the talk show hosts and sympathetic fans, she had contended. If it was all about the money, the fame, it would have been a no brainer argument, but it wasn't. It was about the writing. It was about the story. In the end he had laid it out for her: this was the deal breaker. If she told anyone every part of their relationship, the personal and the professional, was over. She gave in. He was too much of an earner as he was in the end, he supposed. But now all that was over and she was right. They had to act and act fast to own the story, and before anyone else, before Robert and Captain Montgomery, before the guys at the precinct, before everyone in his life found out that he had lied to them.

"Handle it." He said. Gina nodded and there was a pleased look in her eye. "I don't want anyone approaching my daughter or my mother about it Gina. No one."

"I don't know if I will be able to stop that Rick. But I will try." His agent was already pulling her cell from her pocket, already thumbing the keypad as she left the room.

"Dad." Alexis drew his attention back to her. "Don't worry about me or Grams. We can handle ourselves. And you need to get better."

"She's right, Richard. What's done is done and Gina is very capable." She looked at him, her face in firm lines. "You knew this day was coming, and so did Gina. We all did."

"I was kinda wishing it wouldn't." It was a childish thing to say and he knew it, but he was nothing if not petulant in the face of an I-told-you-so. This day had been coming. He had been foolish to carry on as if it wouldn't. And now it was out, and because of it Ryan had maybe had to kill a man he otherwise wouldn't have, and he had scared his family, worried and angered Beckett, and now he could look forward to having to explain himself to Captain Montgomery and Bob. Oh god, how was he going to explain it to Bob. His friend had placed his trust in him, and now he was going to find out that that trusted friend had lied to him and potentially given fodder to his political enemies. The legacy of his mayor-ship could be damaged. And it wouldn't matter that Rick was the one who had lied, not Bob. It wouldn't matter at all. Shit, he wished he had more time. Hell, he wished he had a time machine.

"Kiddo if wishes were horses-" His mother interrupted his thoughts. But then she stopped suddenly and turned and he tracked the movement to the door of the room. "Ah, the nurse is here. Now you do what she says Richard.

"I am going to take Alexis out for a meal. The poor girl has come straight from her classes and missed lunch." Rick looked at his daughter, feeling the guilt deepening with every passing second. "We'll be back in later."

"No. Gram, I'll stay-"

"No. It's all right." Rick picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Its fine pumpkin. Go. Eat." He tugged her closer, conspiratorially close. "Sneak me in a muffin."

"Dad." She admonished, but there was a smile there now.

"A chocolate one." He instructed, watching as his mother rolled her eyes and tugged Alexis out of the room. "With sprinkles!" He yelled and winced as his ribs and head protested. "Er, Hi." He looked at the nurse as she approached, two small cups in one hand. "I am sure the food here is fine, but-"

"Your daughter needed something to take her mind off her father looking like he's gone three rounds with a gorilla?"

"Looks that bad does it?" He touched his face gingerly. The skin felt taut and hot where the Behemoth had punched him.

"I've seen worse." She smiled as she handed him the first cup. There were two pills in the bottom of it. The second cup was filled with water. "You're mother is right though: we nurses always know best. Just stay put and let yourself recover."

"Yes ma'am." He downed the pills and drank the water. He couldn't stay put though. That couldn't happen, not yet. So many people were about to be affected by his decision to hide himself from the world and he couldn't bear the thought of lying here while it happened. No. He couldn't do that. His thoughts, as they usually seemed to these days, strayed to Beckett and what she was about to do: reveal all to her Captain, her colleagues. Alone. No, that definitely couldn't happen.

So he watched as the nurse checked his vitals, and dutifully answered her questions, and when she had gone he threw back the covers and made his escape.

End of Chapter 3. We go to the 12th in the next part. Kate is dealing with the case in hand and looking to Lanie for counsel. And Rick is about to do something rash.


	4. Chapter 4

"OK. So, what you are trying to say; what you have been trying to say for the last 10 minutes is that Richard Castle, our _Richard Castle_ , is deaf?"

"Uh."Beckett, stared at Lanie Parish over the corpse the Medical Examiner was hovering next to. "Uh, um. How did you-?"

"Girl, how many times do I have to say it: I can read you like a book. And when it comes to Castle, it's always the same book." She looked over the top of her safety glasses at Kate. Kate blinked back, and gripped the edge of the empty autopsy table she was sitting on.

"I have a book?"

"You have a book." Lanie repeated still appearing very calm in the wake of what she had just worked out from Kate's stuttered attempts to get some help from her friend without betraying Castle's secret. Lanie was amazing. And evidently Kate needed a new poker face. "And as for Rick Castle being deaf: I am not buying that one. Is it April, because I am not getting fooled by something so -"

"Lanie, I am not playing April fool's. He's deaf. Well, not totally. A bit."

" _A bit?_ Isn't that like being _a bit_ pregnant?"

"We raided a store house of Baxter's this morning. It got a little ugly and Castle got into a fight with our suspect before he got the drop on me. It was bad Lanie. The guy was huge. And the medics, the hospital, they found his hearing aids." Lanie stared at her, hard, and Kate found herself fidgeting. "And now, now I have to tell Captain Montgomery. There's going to be fall out. And-"

"Woah, woah. Slow down. Back up." Lanie waved her scalpel over the body in front of her. "Richard Castle is deaf? Since when?"

"Since he was a kid apparently, I met his mother at the hospital, but that isn't the -"

"Hold on." Lanie interrupted again. " _Apparently?_ What do you mean _apparently_? Kate have you talked to _him_ about this? You did talk to him about it, right?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Don't look at me like that. I was mad. I was in shock. Lanie he was almost killed because he couldn't hear Ryan and Espo warning him about the second guy." Oh hell, she hadn't talked to him about it. Or about anything. She'd gone in mad, warned him off and left.

"OK, so let me get this straight. Castle got into a fight, trying to protect you; he was injured enough to need medical attention and this bombshell blew up in his face; and then you got mad that he'd kept this secret from you, so you read him the riot act _in his sick bed_ and left him at the hospital."

"He lied to me Lanie-"

"And since when is that new? _Man edits life story to impress woman_ wouldn't sell any papers. It happens every day."

"Not like this." Kate was too caught up to make her usual rebuttal against the writer's feelings for her. "He could have been killed."

"And you get to kick his butt for that." Lanie said. "Look, Kate, you've had a shock. Hell, I am only calm now because it hasn't hit yet. And yeah, you have to tell the Captain. Javi, Ryan: they have to know too. But," Lanie prompted.

"I have to talk to Castle." She finished and Lanie nodded. "Ooh Lanie." Kate dropped her head into her hands. "I screwed up."

"Yeah, but lucky for you, that man is crazy about you. He'd forgive you for just about anything. And the same goes for you."

"Lanie!"

"What? I'm only saying what everyone else can see. The guy just got beat up trying to protect you. And you come down here, mad as hell that he might have been killed. Only one reason why you're down here talking to me, trying to find a way around this whole mess, and not up there making calls to the Captain to get writer boy cut out of your life."

The M.E. stared at her, challenging her to respond. Kate stared back, and - her phone suddenly rang. Oh thank god! She fished it from her pocket, looked at the screen and saw Ryan's name flashing. She took a deep breath. Before coming down to see Lanie she had left Espo and Ryan to process Baxter, the guy that Castle had fought, as he was transferred from the hospital to the 12th for interview. The perp had come out of the fight much better than Castle had, but as Espo reported it: "only because he has a head like a block of concrete". She licked her lips and pressed her ear to the cell. "Beckett."

"Um, boss you need to get back here."

"What's going on?" She sat up suddenly at Ryan's strained tone. Lanie's eyes widened, watching Kate.

"Uh, it's Castle. Here's here."

"What? He's supposed to be in the hospital." Kate jumped off the autopsy table and Lanie had to take a hasty step back. Kate barely registered her.

"Yeah, well, if it means anything it looks like he still should be." Ryan said. And then there was a crashing noise, and something that sounded like a loud protest.

"What was that?" She barked into the cell.

"Uh, just get up here."

"On my way." She thumbed the red icon and killed the call, bewildered. "Castle's busted himself out of hospital. He's upstairs."

"I put that much together. Let me get my bag, I'm coming with."

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

When Kate reached the bullpen, it seemed to be bustling around as usual, but there was something in the air that didn't feel right. She looked around, noting the repeated looks people kept flashing at the closed break room door. Then at her. Then back to the door again. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Then Ryan suddenly appeared at her shoulder and indicated with a jerk of his chin.

"He's in there." He said. "We wanted to take him back to the hospital, but he's insisting he won't leave without seeing you first." He gave a helpless half shrug and pushed the door open.

"Dude, don't make me make you. Sit the fuck _down_!" Espo almost yelled as they entered the room. Castle was perched on a stool, splinted arm braced on the table, with Detective Esposito standing over him, arms crossed. Beckett took the opportunity to scan him head to do with a practiced eye for detail. And he looked like hell. Castle had evidently found his coat somewhere at the hospital, but otherwise he was wearing green scrubs and badly fitting white runners. And his face, spectacularly bruised and battered down the left side, was paler than she ever remembered seeing it. He looked like a wax model of himself. A sweating, utterly spent wax model. Restraining the sudden urge to go to him, she met his gaze and found herself lost for words. She recognized that look and it hit her like a physical blow. It was the sort of battered stoicism that hollowed out the eyes of family members of victims of crime. The ones who knew that they had just lost everything, but were grimly determined to see it through to the end. Until justice was served. To see it in Castle's eyes threw her completely and she stalled to a halt inside the door.

She knew why he was here.

"Oh my god!" Lanie's eye was on the physical, as usual, and she immediately bustled passed Kate's shoulder to plant herself right in front of the writer. "Castle!" He turned to look at her. "What the hell were you thinking? Did you run all the way here? Hold still."

"Ow! Did you just pinch me?" He yelped as the M.E. squeezed a patch of skin on the back of his hand, and examined its reaction.

"Dehydrated." She muttered, ignoring him in favour of shining her torch in his eyes, feeling for a pulse on his unstrapped wrist. "When was the last time you ate or drank anything?" Again she didn't wait for an answer. "Well, don't just stand there Javier: get the man a drink of water. Ryan go get him something to eat. Come on, come on." The two men went to work in the tiny room. The fridge door opened and slammed shut.

And Kate's phone rang. She pulled the cell free from her pocket and answered it without looking at the caller I.D. Her gaze was locked on Castle.

"Beckett."

"Kate?" The sound of the panicked voice was like an electric shock and Beckett felt herself suddenly unfreeze. In front of her, Espo had returned with a coffee cup of water and Lanie was watching Castle, steely eyed, as he drank it.

"Oh, Martha." Her exclamation drew Castle's attention with a snap.

"Richard has disappeared from the hospital. I thought I would phone you before I send out for the marines. Is he-?"

"Yes, Martha, he's here."

"Oh thank god." she said. Then her voice hardened. "Put him on would you Katherine?"

"Castle. Your Mom would like a word." She said, handing the phone over. She was relieved to see that he still had it in him to look panicked.

"Mother, I- Yes. Yes. I had to - No. No. I didn't - OK, ouch! OK. Fair point. Well, I will explain it to them. Yes. Oh now? No no no no. Mom- Mo- Hello Doctor. Yes. Yes. No, I know it wasn't a - Well. I- hell- Ye- I - breakin- up- tunnel- " He thumbed the icon to end the call. "I'm a dead man. Lanie can I live with you?" Lanie only pursed her lips.

"Castle what were you thinking coming down here?" Kate said, and felt her voice had lost all of its power. She knew why he was here, but she couldn't help asking. The detective in her was always looking for confirmation, even of the obvious.

"I had to." He looked at her pointedly, all glibness gone. "You were right, Kate, I should have told you earlier. But I didn't. I am sorry. I am so sorry. And I am not going to sit back and let you take all the heat for my decision."

"What decision?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah, what decision?" Espo echoed.

"We should go." Lanie, who had been scrutinising both Castle and Kate, suddenly spoke.

"No. Lanie. No. Stay. All of you." Castle sounded as if each word was being torn out from his chest, as if it was almost too much to get each one out. He stalled on the next word and Kate took her chance.

"No. Castle you don't have to do this. You don't. You and I, we need to talk-"

"No, it's ok." He said, and the naked appeal in his face was unmistakable: _please let me do this, let me make it right_. "They need to know. Gina's been fielding calls all morning. Everyone is going to know by the end of the day." He turned to look at everyone there; each one in turn, as if he was memorising their faces. She watched him take a deep breath, wince and then: "I'm deaf."

End

O.K. Crisis of confidence happening here. I am sorry this chapter was so short. I keep getting interrupted by stuff happening IRL, so I thought I would put it out there while I could. The next chapter is in the works (next weekend is likely), but I am not at all confident about this one. Please let me know what you think? Still interested in reading more? Comments? Criticism? Help!


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you everyone for the reads, follows, and comments. I am trying to respond to ever comment on email, but there are some that I can't - so thank you to those lovely people too! Its so inspirational!

Well, on with the story.

Chapter 5

"I'm deaf." Those two words were the most difficult he had had to speak in his entire life, and for a moment it felt like it was going to be impossible to get them out. But now it was done. Done. And now... now everyone was staring. At him. He shifted in his seat, bracing his arm against the table, and tried to ignore the headache that had been plaguing him since he had woken in the hospital. He scanned them all again, reading expressions, looking, looking, for clues to what was going on and what was coming next. All except Beckett. For some reason, not entirely clear even to himself, he couldn't quite bring himself even to look in her direction.

"You're deaf? You're not deaf." Ryan finally spoke, his voice skipping over the words and ending in a short you-can't-fool-me laugh.

"No, I'm deaf." Castle repeated. It was no easier the second time he said it. The muscles in his jaw felt tight and he swallowed thickly. Even his own body didn't want to say it. It was trying to shut him up and he suddenly realised why. He respected every person in this room, but it wasn't until just now that he realised how much he wanted _their_ respect. He wanted them to like him, to see in him a colleague, a fellow sleuth able to hold his own and bring down the bad guys equal with any of them. How would anything be the same again? Even if Montgomery and Bob allowed him to continue with the 12th, he had a new title now: Deaf Rick Castle the Deaf Writer. The Deaf wannabe-cop. The Deaf -

"Are you sure?" Ryan stumbled on, caught himself and blushed.

"Pretty sure." He answered evenly. And his gaze touched on Lanie's. She was staring at him, but something was off with the intensity of it. He blinked. Oh, she _knew_. She already knew. How - ?

"But-" Ryan said again, interrupting his train of thought, then stopped, brow crinkling. Espo continued to stare. "But you're, you- I'm talking to you. You're talking back."

"Hearing aids. And, I can lip read. Amongst other things."

"Bullshit." Epso expostulated in a sudden exhalation. "This is a joke. We'd know if you were-"

"How would you know Javi?" Castle said, before he could stop himself. The anxiety was making him brittle, edgy, and he couldn't stop himself saying more. "How? This didn't happen to me yesterday. I've had years to learn to hide it from pretty much everyone." _Shut up Rick, shut up._ That went down like a lead balloon. The defining bête noire of Javier Esposito was disloyalty, dishonesty, in those he considered friends. And boy had Rick been both. _Oh boy._ Javi bristled, his jaw hardening. Rick braced for the blow.

"Show us: the hearing aids." He ordered. And there was a shocked admonishment from everyone else in the room.

"No. It's ok. Fine." He'd expected to have to do this, sooner or later, and managed to produce one of the hearing aids without his fingers shaking. Espo stared at it. They all did. Castle cringed inside, but held himself still. This had to be the worst day of his entire life. The worst. When no one said anything after a good 20 seconds, the self-consciousness was too much, he couldn't take it anymore and with fumbling fingers, put it back. Espo blinked, some fire going out of his eyes.

"Well, I'll be damned." Ryan said, almost to himself.

"You knew about this?" Espo turned on Beckett.

"Only after this morning." Rick interceded. Beckett did not need his protection, but he'd be damned if he'd let her come under fire for this. "As I said, Espo, I've had a lid on this for years. Beckett didn't know."

"And now everyone's gonna know." Epso said. The barb was pointed with Espo's continuing, if diminishing, anger and Rick took it without complaint.

"Everyone's gonna know." He repeated dully. The weight of that knowledge suddenly felt too weighty to bear and his shoulder's sagged. All those years. All that time, and money and effort. All for nothing. All for nothing. His head felt suddenly heavy and light at the same time. His skin was _way_ too hot for his body. He shivered suddenly.

"-Castle?

"Hmph - what?" He blinked. Beckett was suddenly in front of him. She looked as blurry as she sounded. That was weird. And now she was slowly sliding up onto the ceiling. That was curious. A trick, worthy of the Roger's dynasty of magicians, shysters and two-bit showmen - and ladies! Wow.

"That's awesome!" He told her. His voice sounded slurred. "How are you doing that?" She grabbed him with her three pairs of hands. This was so cool! His head felt foggy, but it was just so astounding that he managed: "Best trick ever!"

Then there was a lot of very fast talking.

"- _something_ -! Catch- Es-o! R-!" That was the very high up, six handed Beckett talking now.

"Oh god, why does he have to be so big. How fucking tall is he anyway?" A deeper voice, easier to understand.

"My back!" A different deeper voice suddenly groaned. Then -

And he was moving, moving, and then a sudden short drop onto something smooth and giving. He bit back a yelp as the drop jolted his hand and ribs. But then his head connected with something softer.

" _Something something something something_. Call a bus." Ceiling octopus Beckett said, somewhere out of sight. And OK, _that_ he heard.

"NO!" He forced his eyes open, trying to find the detective. He managed to force his way up onto one elbow. "No bus. No hospital! Beckett-"

"Castle." She was down off the ceiling, but still shot in soft focus. He had to stare at her lips to make sense of things. Damn hearing aids not doing their job. "Castle, stop. Lie down." She pressed her two, _only two again_ , hands against his shoulders. He was too worked up to let her push him back. "Lanie? Is this the concussion?" Beckett demanded, her eyes wide and never leaving his face.

And Beckett disappeared into the murky sound-scape that was fuzzing up the rest of the room. He could hear voices, but not make them out. This was going wrong. All wrong.

"Castle? Rick?" Lanie was there again, right in front of him. Over enunciating every word. Fuck. His heart was doing double time.

"No bus! Lanie. Please. This is not how it's supposed to go. I screwed up. I have to fix it."

"No, right now you have to lie back down, honey." She said, staring at him. "Let me check you out. If this is the concussion raising its ugly head again you have to go back to the hospital."

"No-"

"Castle. I could help them call the bus right now, or you let me check you out and you might, _might_ , get to stay here. You with me?" She said. And he knew when he was beat. He let her use the light touch of her index finger to his chest to push him back onto the soft surface. "OK, let me check you out." She shone that annoying light in his eyes again. Then "OK, you remember your name?"

"Richard Edgar Castle." He complied.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"Yeah. Got one of the nurses to drive me. She's a fan. Nice kid. Kind reminds me of-"

"OK. Got it. How's the vision? Headache?"

"A - a little blurry. And yeah, still."

"Feel like you're gonna be sick?"

"No, not really."

"Hungry?"

"Uh, yeah, now that you mention it. Alexis was going to smuggle me in a muffin, but ah, I didn't hang around long enough-"

"OK." She patted his arm. "OK. It could be the concussion, but I think it's more likely low blood sugar. Give him those donuts Ryan. Javi, go get a soda." Three frosted pink donuts appeared suddenly under Rick's nose. "Eat!" She commanded. There was more talking, and then suddenly he was alone in the break room with the two women. He bit down on a donut under the M.E.'s stern gaze. God, that was good. _Oh my god._ Donuts: manna from heaven! And he usually disliked them too. Lanie spoke again as he watched the women over his donut. "Hmm. I'd let him stay here for a while. See if things get sorted out with some food and water. Get someone to watch him for a time."

"Um -?" Beckett started.

"Oh no. No."

"But you're a doctor."

"Of _dead people_."

"I've got a suspect, from this morning's raid, in Interview that -"

"Espsito and Ryan can more than handle. And there has been _more_ than a polite delay in what's coming next."

"Lanie-"

"Talk. " Lanie gestured in his direction, then back at Beckett. "To him. Now." She snatched up a black bag from the table. "And you -" She pointed at him now. He blinked, startled. "You I will see later for the apology, the ass-whooping, and the expensive bottle of perfume you are going to buy me. And the story. Oh and it better be a good story Castle." She opened the door and spoke to Beckett. "I'll let the boys know they can get started on the interview." And she was gone.

And he was alone.

With Beckett.

And nothing but time.

End

Oh, I am sorry for the short post again. I got some time and got it done. More on the weekend. This time its Beckett and Castle finally having that talk.


	6. Chapter 6

Kate took the cold sweating soda can from Esposito at the door as he passed by on his way to interview Baxter. He nodded at her: _we got this Boss_ , but she could see in his stiff expression that he was still smarting over Castle's subterfuge. It would take a while for him to calm down, she knew, so it was probably for the best that he take lead detective on breaking Baxter. It would do him good. Get him focussed on something more positive. She nodded back and shut the door. As it clicked home, she squeezed her eyelids together for a long moment, took a breath, and turned back to the room.

"Here." She popped the can and handed it to Castle where he was reclining in a rumpled, dazed slump, nibbling at that lurid pink donut. He took the soda without a word, pretty much without looking up, and instead of drinking he gingerly pressed it to the mess of bruises and swelling along his cheek. A fine shiver ran through his hand as he touched the can to his skin, and the movement drew her attention to the deep bruising and battered knuckles. He had really let go on Baxter. _Oh Castle_... With those injuries, and his hand splinted, hair sticking up in sweaty, choppy waves, face pale, and still wearing that dusty coat and those baggy scrubs, he was a mess. And it was going to get worse before it got better.

Lanie was right: they had to talk. Before Montgomery returned. And before the media began their feeding frenzy.

She looked around for a seat and her gaze fell on Castle's couch. In the past she might simply have sat down with him. She may even, she admitted to herself, have plucked the can from his unsteady hand and held it in place for him while they talked. But now things were not so easy. For a start, she wasn't sure how angry to be with him anymore for nearly getting killed, against how guilty and angry she felt at herself for not handling the her own reaction in a more professional manner. She opted to pull a chair close by and sit facing him. "Feeling any better?" She asked. He didn't answer, just continued to slowly eat that disgusting pastry, staring at the floor. She nudged his foot with hers. "Castle."

"Huh?" He looked up. A line of condensation from the soda had streaked down the side of his face. And she paused, a pithy remark about being away with the fairies stalled on her tongue. Yesterday she would have just ribbed him on his not hearing her. And yesterday he would have taken it, maybe turned it around on her, and they would have moved on. But now, was he ruminating, zoned out with his sugar low, or was it that he simply hadn't heard her? _Couldn't_ hear her. It was that last possibility that had changed everything and thrown off her game, _their_ game. She didn't even know where to begin that talk they needed to have.

Maybe it just had to start at the beginning.

"I haven't thanked you Castle." She said, leaning forwards, elbows on her knees and hands clasped. He stared. Blinked. And then she saw it. How had she not seen it before? It was clear now; it was right there in the subtle dart of his gaze from her lips to her eyes, roving over her like he looked at a crime scene: searching for clues, leaving nothing unexamined. He was literally reading her words, her expression, her body language, to augment what the hearing aids didn't pick up. How hadn't she seen him doing this before? How had they _all_ missed it. It rattled her and she had to take a moment to remember what she was saying. "For having my back this morning. Thank you. If you hadn't been there-"

"That's what partner's do." He said without hesitation. She needed his help, he was there. A simple huge thing stated so plainly, so without guile or agenda, it felt like a slap in the face. Then his hollow-eyed looked returned. "I'm going to fix this Kate." She blinked, startled at his use of her first name. The urgent intimacy of it was almost painful.

"Castle-"

"I will. That's why I came here-"

"Castle!" She repeated, but the earnest rambling didn't even pause. Clearly, words weren't going to cut it.

"This is on me." He went on. "You shouldn't have to be the one who has to explain. When Montgomery gets back I'll go - What are you doing?"

"Here. You're going to spill it." Kate spoke from beside him as she sat down and reached for the soda can. More effective than a shout to stop him talking, she took the can from his hand and examined the bruising. It was awful. She hoped Espo was exorcising some of his anger on Baxter. "There?" She gently pressed the cold surface about where he had had it. He nodded, staring at her.

"I _will_ fix it-" He breathed. He was stuck on his line of thought and she could hear the desperate undertone in his voice, see the strain in his face. She could easily imagine this was the source of the energy that had enabled him to physically make the journey to the 12th. He was clearly exhausted, but on a fixed train of thought and action and there was no use trying to divert the conversation so she nodded and continued holding the can to his face. He visibly relaxed then. Probably thinking she may let him 'fix it' as soon as Montgomery got back. As if it could be fixed. Clearly he was not thinking with his usual piercing level of clarity or he would have realised it was now less about fixing things than it was about damage control. And it was unlikely that the sight of Castle wearing stolen hospital scrubs and staggering bandaged and beaten through Montgomery's office door would reassure the Captain that the situation was anything more than barely salvageable. She sighed. Her fingers were uncomfortably chilled holding the soda can, she suddenly realised. And it mustn't be too comfortable against Castle's skin either.

"I think that's enough." She pulled the can away, considering his bruised cheek. "It's probably better that the soda goes inside you at this point, than on the side of your face." She handed the can back.

"I really am sorry-"

"Stop, Castle." She looked at him pointedly. This constant apologizing had to stop. "Rather than being sorry, please just tell me why you kept this to yourself? We've been partnered up for months now. Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me about your hearing?"

"Trust you?" He repeated, looking at her closely. "Beckett, like I told Epso I haven't told _anyone_ in over 20 years that didn't absolutely have to know."

"Why not?"

"Why not-?" He looked downright frustrated now, and a bit disappointed, and he choked on the words. "I- Before today, who was I?"

"I don't understand?"

"I think you do. I was Richard Castle, mystery writer. On the New York Times best seller list. Millionaire. The party guy. A self-made man. I was the guy who brought you coffee just how you like it, every day. I had something to offer to help solve your cases, even though you'll hardly ever admit it. I was your -" He paused, clearly irritated, even angry. "-attached to the 12th to find inspiration for my next best seller. But now what am I?" He stared, heated emotion clearing his gaze. She didn't have to be a genius to know what he was alluding to. And he must have seen her put the pieces together because he nodded sharply. "Exactly." He paused again, and she didn't know what to say. Telling him it didn't matter that he was deaf, that she didn't see him any differently would be a lie. And they both knew it.

"After I lost my hearing," He stopped, licked his lower lip, swallowed, "everyone was so focussed on what was lost. It was bad enough feeling like I'd slipped out step with the rest of the world, without everyone around me reminding me every single second. Before it happened I was just a regular kid. I went to the park, I played with my friends, I rode my bike, I skipped school sometimes and I got caught and punished for it. But after wards," he paused, exhaled. "Afterwards, I was the deaf kid. I couldn't be trusted to do _anything_ anymore, to achieve anything, to be able to do anything for myself. I wasn't even allowed to go to the damn park by myself anymore. And if I tried, I didn't even get punished for it. Like I was so damaged even that might finish me off. It was like I'd lost everything I was along with that chunk of my hearing." He had stopped looking at her as he talked, instead moving stiffly to sit forward, resting his elbows on his knees. And now as he paused again, Kate found herself unable even to breathe in the silence. She felt frozen in her seat. She had no idea all this was inside him. And from Martha's explanation of what had happened so long ago, with her despair at not being able to reach him or even to understand why things had eventually changed, it was clear that she had no idea this had been held inside him for so long either. He turned his head to look at her.

"So, you need to know that it's not about trust Kate. I do trust you. No, it's about being allowed to be who I am!" He said. His jaw clenched around words that were still heated with an old bitter anger. "And it's about stopping people looking at me like you are looking at me right now!"

"I'm not-" She started automatically, and he gave her a look that he must have picked up from Lanie. She stopped, chagrined. But -"OK. But Castle, not telling people may work when it's just you, writing and partying, but when you came to the 12th it stopped being just about you. Our job is dangerous. We rely on each other to get it done and to get it done as safely as possible. And we have to trust one another with everything that counts to keep it that way. Otherwise, it can't work."

"I know. But I was handling it." He objected, the old anger turning peevish. That sounded more like the Castle she knew, but right now childish whining had no charm and just grated against her skin. He had about zero rights to be angry with her challenging him about such a vital part of The Job. And it was clear that up until things went bad, that he really had no idea what his withholding the state of his hearing could have resulted in for the rest of the team. Far from handling it, he had just been damn lucky. Of all the self-centred, self-absorbed, clueless, childish-

"Until you weren't!" She retorted hotly. "Until you couldn't hear something that you really needed to hear and you were nearly killed! Look Castle, I am truly sorry about what you have to carry with you every day, and I think what you have managed to accomplish is nothing short of remarkable. I do. But as long as you are with the 12th, with me, you absolutely _cannot_ keep things like this to yourself!"

They stared at one another. Glared.

"And I said: I will fix it." Castle finally spoke, voice tight.

"Oh, really. How? How are you going to fix this so Captain Montgomery doesn't kick you to the curb?"

"Doesn't-?" Castle snapped back, eyes widening. Something, some new fresh emotion flashed in his eyes, but was gone before she could identify it. He opened his mouth to say something-

And here was a knock at the door. Ryan poked his head in.

"Ah, sorry to interrupt," he glanced at each of them in turn, expression tentative. Then his eyes widened. "Hey aren't you two supposed to be working things out?"

"We are-" Kate retorted, surprised and then aggravated that Castle had spoken the same words at the same time. How dare they be so in sync when she was so angry with him! She glared. He glared back.

"Uh, guys-"

" Ryan- What is it? Baxter's lawyer causing problems?" Kate tore her gaze from Castle's, blinked and looked up at the detective hanging inside the room, propped on the door handle. Now that she had steered the conversation back to the case, Ryan looked like a kid about to give a present to his parents on Christmas. The energy was just buzzing from him.

"No, no. It's all good. Very good. Espo's on a roll. I thought you might like to see him take it home." He gave a small wolfish grin at Castle. "You really gave it to him good Castle. Guy looks like a punching bag. Wanna see him go down for the count?"

Castle stared. He was scanning, Kate realised, recognizing the analytical look on his face. He was evaluating Ryan. Not just his words, but everything he could see. Then he nodded and a small tense smile that did not reach his eyes pulled at his mouth. "Yes. I. Do."

End Chapter 6.

OK, so, not entirely smooth sailing. Yet. Bit of misunderstanding there. Bit of miscommunication between our heroes. I am an incurable romantic, though, so it will get there. Please R&R *looks hopeful*


	7. Chapter 7

Holy cow this story is still going? Wow. Hope you like this chapter. Once again, I am a bit nervous. All comments, criticisms welcome and I take everything on board and attend to anything anyone raises. Thank you again to all the lovely people involving themselves in this story. Please R&R. I truly am a bit nervous about this Chapter.

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Chapter 7

Inside the interview room, Baxter looked even larger than Rick remembered him. Much larger. It didn't seem possible, but there he was. Monstrous in every dimension, the man's head alone was a gargantuan block thunked onto massive shoulders like a hunk of unworked clay thrown onto a potter's wheel, with features crudely hacked into place as if someone had tried to sculpt it with a chainsaw. And now that he could see them, the marks his soft writer's hands had left upon that enormous face hardly seemed worth the praise that Ryan had handed out. A black eye ( _note:_ that _is how to do a proper criminal dead eyed stare_ ), a split lip and bruised cheek bone. Beauty spots at best. And the giant's hands! Sweet mother of... Where they rested, in fists no less, on the interview room table each was daintily spotted in red along the knuckles where they had impacted with Rick's face and ribs. And yes, those hands were the size of hubcaps. He was sure they were. He swallowed. Well, one thing was very clear: one Richard E. Castle should be very very dead.

" _somethin_ g Castle?" He heard the voice as a hand touched his lower back and grabbed his coat, pulling, and he realised he had swayed forwards on his feet and grabbed onto the frame of the interview window. Beckett had a handful of his jacket, hauling back to counter his movement. He looked back at her and nodded: _I'm ok_. He frowned at her tense, pensive expression. He didn't like to see her face pulled down in lines of worry like that. She already wore the burden of long hard fought days and unquiet nights too much for his liking.

"He's just - ah - He's just a bit larger than I remember." He stumbled over his words, trying to let her know she wasn't going to get a repeat of his break room swoon. It was her turn to nod now, lips twisted in a _yeah he is that_ acknowledgement _._ "Next time I'll try to wait until the guy's back is all the way turned before I jump him!" He tried for levity in the lie, knowing he wouldn't ever wait. As terrifying as Baxter was, it would have been so much worse if he'd hesitated and that murderous giant had reached Beckett before - That wasn't something that bore contemplation.

"There can't be a next time Castle." She returned, and he flinched. Low blow. He already knew things were heading that way, there was no need to rub it in. He had already explained that he was sorry and that he going to fix it. What more did she want from him? Along with the irritation he suddenly remembered that they were supposed to be fighting, and tension returned to his jaw. But too late he saw in her eyes that there was more to her objection than the memory of their fight in the break room, something worse than their fight and his lie. Something bleaker than that. His anger lost its heat and he opened his mouth to say, what? He wasn't sure? But she looked away, back into the interview room. Turned away with a finality that gnarled his words in his throat, stuck them there. Her hand dropped from his coat.

 _Well, if this wasn't turning out to be_ the best _day of his life..._

Esposito spoke then, grabbing his attention. He seized on to the distraction with both hands and looked back in to the interview room. Damn. He hated it when people had their back to him. And right now both Esposito and Ryan had their backs to him. Well, now that his damned secret was out, he would never have to scramble to put together an interview again. Castle reached for the volume control and yanked the dial.

"- have the murder weapon Baxter." Espo was saying. "We have motive, we have opportunity, we have witnesses. The only thing missing: is your confession."

Oh that was sweet. _So sweet._ Castle almost bit down on his knuckle to stop the squeal, but at the last minute remembered the state of his hands. Esposito had a way with cop talk that made Rick's fingers itch to start typing. For a moment he forgot anything had changed since this morning. He needed a pen. He needed paper. He needed Espo to repeat that into a recorder. With feeling. Rick palmed the window, suddenly totally absorbed.

"Come on Ty." Ryan put in. "You're looking at life without parole in a small dark little hole in the ground. You confess, put your mark on paper, and we can see if that can't be made into a bigger sized hole."

Rick watched Baxter's face as it remained completely unmoved. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was so still his lawyer was eventually forced to partially stand and lean over to offer his advice into his client's ear. The legal professional, , a surprisingly erudite looking man with blond hair and a faint pencil moustache, was tall and graceful in his movements, and he made sure that no part of himself made contact with his client. Even going so far as to hold his coat back from brushing against the bigger man's shoulder. _Fascinating._ Then he whispered to his client and Rick's eyes narrowed in concentration, eyes tracking the man's lips. He was in profile which was a problem, but then he turned just a little towards their window to look narrow-eyed at the two detectives across the table and - _will not confess. Do I make myself clear?_ Castle watched him turn back to his client to gauge the man's response. There was none. Nothing. Not even a twitch. Was the man stoned? No. Wait. Rick looked again, catching a faint gleam of perspiration on Baxter's upper lip and forehead. That wasn't stoicism or tough-guy indifference on display, that was the utter stillness of a big man so in fear of his life he wasn't even game to move. Castle swept his gaze over the lawyer's clothes. Pinstripe suit, not overtly pricy but very well tailored to fit his slim physique in all the right places. The watch, however, was another story: European, white gold and sleek metallic lines; he bet that was sapphire crystal glass covering the finely worked face. The watch wasn't new either. Rick had been researching watches for a piece he was writing, and had taken a shine to the catalogue he was browsing. That one was definitely not amongst the range for the last year.

OH!

"He didn't do it!"

"What?" He heard Beckett loud and clear this time and flinched.

" Audemars Piguet!" Forgetting his injuries he slapped the window with the back of his hand in a magician's flourish of an emphasis. "OW!" Espo and Ryan flinched and looked over their shoulders, eyes roving the mirrored surface.

"Castle!"

"Audemars Piguet, the watch." Rick cradled his hand against his bruised chest, too excited to stop now, and too in the moment to remember they were currently angry with one another. "Beckett, look at Baxter's lawyer. The watch, Kate the watch! That's a 100,000 Audemars Piguet wristwatch. He's tried to dress down. The big boss's orders I bet. But that watch! Money Detective. Money!" He paused, watching her catch up with him, watching the wheels turn. He jiggled on his feet, impatient. "Plus he just ordered his client not to confess!"

"What? How did you? Oh -." She breathed, looking at him with that familiar crackling, joyful intensity that made his heart race and his writer's heart sing poetry.

"How could Ty Baxter afford a lawyer with an Audemars Piguet wrist watch?" Rick prompted, knowing she'd put it together and take it home in the next moment. He bit down on his lip to keep from squealing his excitement.

"He couldn't." Kate carried on. She stepped closer, not seeming to know she was doing it. She looked at Baxter, then back up at him. "Someone else did. Someone who is giving the orders. Someone with the power to order a thug like Baxter to take a life sentence the hard way."

"And someone that scares him so much he won't even scowl when he does it." Castle added. They were inches away from each other now. He could smell her perfume, see each exquisite eye lash, each faint freckle. And for a second they were still, staring right into each other. _My god_ , if she became any more beautiful to him he would probably die. And for what felt like the millionth time he cursed that morning, cursed himself for messing up so badly. He didn't want to fight with her, especially not on what was likely to be his last day here. He couldn't stay angry . Neither of them could though it seemed, if they weren't able to remember to stay mad at each other for longer than a few minutes. But then Beckett's eyes lost their sparkle, and the moment was over. She broke eye contact and scurried her gaze back to the interview room.

"You're right." She said, her lips betraying only a slight tremor that she had felt that buzz of connection. Yesterday, seeing that would have filled him with hope and desire and frustration, but now it just hollowed him out knowing that very soon he would likely lose ever seeing it again. He watched her watch Baxter and wished he felt nothing at all. "Baxter didn't do it. I have to stop the interview-"

She left the observation room at speed. Rick turned back to Baxter and his rich lawyer and regarded them flatly. Well, it might be his last day, but at least he was going to leave on a high. Woo fucking hoo.

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

Word was out, Rick could see it. From his hiding spot, behind the half shuttered venetian blinds of the break room, the slow ripple ripe with gossip was going around the bullpen in a visible wave. His cover was blown. Within minutes they would all know. Damn Wikowski's infamous inability to stay off social media for more than an hour.

He sighed, retreated from the window, and carefully lowered himself onto the couch. Ouch. He pressed his lips together to stop himself making any noise and attracting the whispering bullpen to actively seek him out. Ribs, hand, head, stabbed him with their disapproval that he had moved - in any way. Oh yes, the hospital pain killers had worn off and he was once again one giant mass of hurt.

At least he had made the last half hour worthwhile though. He had borrowed a cell and made some overdue phone calls to Alexis ( _angry, upset, happy to hear from him, wanting him home_ ), his mother ( _still annoyed, no scrap that, very annoyed, but understanding why he was where he was. Yes, he was nothing if not his mother's son_ ), and Gina ( _who had handled things surprisingly well with a press release already doing the rounds and two interviews lined up for tomorrow - before the bruises faded and the opportunity for milking the heroism angle was lost_ ). And lastly, to Bob. Which didn't get through, perhaps because he was still meeting with Montgomery? He left a message. It would have to be enough. For now.

There was still no sign of Montgomery. Or Beckett or Espo or Ryan. Since Beckett had made her dramatic entrance and arrested Baxter's lawyer, sweeping him from the room and leaving her colleagues to suspend their interview and return Baxter to the cells, he had not seen any of them. So he had made his way back to the break room and made his calls with only the occasional interruption from a caffeine or lunch seeking detective to interrupt his peace. Now he was trapped here by a rising tide of media gossip amongst the men and women outside the room. He sighed. And winced as his ribcage twinged painfully.

God, he was tired.

But, as could be expected when one thinks such a thought, there came an interruption and the door to the break room opened. Ah ha! The men of the hour, if without the woman of said hour this time.

"Castle?" Ryan sounded surprised to see him there. He tried to straighten up his slouch and winced as he nodded a greeting.

"Castle." Espo's greeting was curt. Rick nodded to him too. Then Javi paused and Rick caught the furtive, subtle jerk of Ryan's head in his direction. "So, ah, that was a good catch earlier. With Baxter. Beckett told us that you figured that the guy was just a stooge and that the lawyer was part of it. Ah, good catch. Probably going to be a much bigger case now. Bigger fish to catch." He nodded again, clearly uncomfortable, but Rick understood the message.

"Thanks." He said, knowing the other man would get his message too. It was the beginnings of forgiveness. He could more than live with that. He was so grateful for it he was glad it would hurt more to cry than to stop himself.

"Listen Epso," He said. "I am sorry about not telling you all about my uh, " _why is it still so difficult to say?_ "hearing."

"Bro'," Javi shook his head, inclining for a second to glance at Ryan. "I get why you did it. I'm still pissed you did it, but I get it." Rick blinked, taken aback. He flicked a glance at Ryan, who was managing to look pleased with himself without making it too obvious. Oh. Rick could have kissed the man and it must have showed because Ryan did his half nod-half ignore thing that he did and disappeared to the coffee machine. "Just don't do anything that stupid again."

"Oh no." Rick fell over his words. Gratitude was no longer a sufficient word to describe how he was feeling. "I won't. Never again. Learned my lesson. And I- thank you."

And that was it. Forgiven. Or on the way to being so. It was a guy thing.

Then it was on. The inevitable questions. Coffee and questions. Questions he was only too happy to answer. How did it happen? How bad was his hearing anyway? Did his family all know? How were his wives (now ex's) persuaded to keep their mouths shut? What did he do to get by? How did he cover for his hearing? Could they see his very expensive hearing aids again? Could they try them out ( _what? No! Get your own super enhanced very expensive hearing augmentation devices!_ )? Could they see what damage Baxter's big fists had done?

And that's how Lanie found Rick with his shirt up around his armpits, pointing to a particularly awesome if very painful bruise, whilst Ryan and Espo variously whistled or nodded their wincing admiration.

"What is it with guys and war wounds?" She suddenly said from behind them. They all jumped. Castle cursed as the sharp movement forced damaged muscle, ligament and bone to move. He dropped his shirt under Lanie's disapproving eye. "What are you looking so pleased about Castle?"

"'War wounds'."

"Oh brother. So, I take it you've all kissed and made up then?" She asked. And the two detectives grinned.

"If only Beckett would let me kiss and make up with her." Rick said, brain comfortably back on non-filter mode. Then paused. Oh shit. "Oh, that came out wrong."

"No it didn't." Ryan said mildly from the coffee machine. Espo grinned only his second grin Rick had seen on him today.

"Don't tell Beckett." He pleaded. "Don't. I know you I owe you guys more, more than I - please don't tell her."

The men just grinned.

"Oh, it's going to take more than help on one case and you flashing your bits at her to make that happen." Lanie said.

"Tell me what to do." Oh he needed Lanie's advice. If he was ever going to completely fix this mess he needed her help.

"Well you can start by apologising."

"I did that already and it went over so well we got into a fight and now she's not talking to me."

"What exactly did you apologise for?"

"For not telling her about my hearing." He stared at Lanie, bewildered by the question. What else would he be sorry for? " And I told her I would fix it. Why? Isn't that-? What are you all shaking your heads for?"

"Oh man." Ryan shook his head. His expression was one of pure pity. Espo tsk'd and Lanie just stared at him.

"What?"

"Just how much do you remember about the raid this morning?" Espo suddenly asked.

"Well. I remember we went into the hideout. I remember there was _a lot_ of weed. Oh man, I- Oh, ok. You guys and the SWAT team were clearing the house. I was following Beckett. It was noisy. I couldn't make much sense of what everyone was saying. It's like that when there's too much going on sometimes. No big deal. I remember I saw Baxter. He was coming up behind Beckett. I got the jump on him. We fought. Then it all gets a bit- I remember you guys doing this." He gave a thumbs up with his unbroken hand. "Then- then -" His voice petered out. There was nothing more. "Then the hospital."

"Oooh." Espo nodded. The nod and the oooh of a man who knew too much Rick decided. "OK. So you don't remember _after_ the fight? Oh. Well, that explains it."

"Explains what?" Rick pleaded. Montgomery was going to be getting back from his meeting anytime soon and the pressure was already too intense. His head was starting to hammer again.

"You don't remember Beckett then?" Ryan butted in and Rick gave what must have been his dirtiest _stop-playing_ looks he had ever shot anyone because Ryan hurried on. "You were pretty knocked around Castle. Baxter's got a hellava right hook on him and he got you real hard."

"We thought he'd punched your brains out of your skull. There was blood coming out of your ears man." Javi chipped in. Lanie shot him a mortified look and he stopped talking. "We didn't know about the hearing aids then." He defended himself. And Castle felt faint. He was damn glad he was sitting down.

"You were talking nonsense Castle." Ryan said. "You couldn't remember your name. You didn't know where you were or who we were. Beckett- She was - Look you gotta understand, being in a fight for real is not like it is in the movies or one of your books. Yeah I know you've done your research, but that's all academic. One punch can kill Castle, we all know that, but it's another thing to actually see it happening." Rick stared at Ryan, the light slowly going on. Oh. "We've seen it before. Too many times. A guy gets a few whacks to the head and he's a bit punch drunk, a bit hazy, but he's talking to you. He's not out cold. He's still breathing. But all the time he's - he's dying anyway. You just can't see it from the outside. Not right away."

"Oh." Rick felt his words die on his tongue. His lips, his jaws, felt like they were made of rubber. "So Beckett thought-"

"We all did." Espo said. "Baxter's one fucking huge hombre bro and he smacked you good. How you punched him out before you went down I will never know." _I punched him out?_

"So you see," Lanie said, giving his shoulder a gentle attention grabbing squeeze as she sat down beside him. Her voice was pure gentleness itself. "You've been apologising for the wrong thing. You want to start to patch things up with Beckett, honey? Well, first you have to apologise for dying right in front of her."


	8. Chapter 8

OK, bit of a warning that things are not yet looking up for our heroes. Please don't hate me! Sometimes things have to hit rock bottom before we can start finding our way out of the hole. I am NOT going to let this go on for much longer because, quite frankly, I can't take it anymore. So, next chapter will be brighter. Never fear. Hope you like it and please R&R. I really appreciate every single comment and I do take them all on board. They give me the boost I need to keep writing.

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The elevator doors closed with only Kate inside and she let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding, and sagged against the back wall. Castle's keen insight had been dead on the money. Baxter's lawyer, Louis Carmichael, was indeed not what he seemed; more Family Enforcer material than defence attorney. But, knowing that and proving it was going to require a lot more leg work, a lot more late nights, a lot more confrontations with Carmichael, and a lot more leaning on the immovable object that was the massive and mostly silent Baxter. Though it was a thrilling turn to the case, it was wearying in the utmost even to think upon it right now. Especially after the morning that had preceded it.

Even thinking about the earlier part of the day, she was tempted to press the elevator's 'hold' button. A few minutes with only herself for company would be a godsend right now, but it was not to be. A moment ago Montgomery's secretary had called to let her know that the Captain was on his way back to the 12th and that he expected to see both her and their resident writer in his office waiting for him when he arrived. His secretary had let her know too that the Captain did not sound like he was in the best of moods - _and was it true that that lovely man Richard Castle was really deaf? Really?_ Damn that Wikowski... And so Kate's mood had dropped a little lower than it already was. She had known this was coming, but forewarned was not particularly forearmed this time.

And forearmed for what really? To argue the almost impossible case to keep Castle in the 12th? She had been so vocal for so long about seeing him gone. And Lanie was right: this was the perfect opportunity to let nature take its course, and damn him if he didn't have it coming. But... But... She bit down on her upper lip and drew in a breath, letting it out slowly. If that was really how it was, why was she finding even thinking about the chair next to her desk not being there as something close to unthinkable? As something close to a physical ache in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment.

She was still reeling from this morning's raid. That was what had her thinking in this nonlinear fashion. That and knowing what was coming next. Everyone who had been there was now in the system for mountains of paperwork, counselling, debriefing, and more paperwork and reports to the Captain and on and on. Even Castle was going to have to put in his own on this one, which was yet another reason to feel ill and exhausted. She would have to find time she didn't have to proofread his report to make sure he didn't sneak in any more florid literary descriptions. She was still enduring the tittering fallout from his first report in which he had described an escaped felon's actual escape as: _the most masterful outcome of keen observation, opportunity, and pernicious derring-do since the audacious John Dillinger escape from Lake County jail in 1934._

Oh. My. God.

So she knew what she should do. Really. She had fought against having a civilian follow her around for months, until the routine of trying to evict Castle from her desk, her life, felt like a second job. Then it had become a running joke. And then it had disappeared in to something much... She shook her head. She had had good reason that she should not want him around, leaving aside the truly awful, painful embarrassment that was being the so called inspiration for _Nikki Heat_. (Oh my god. Just thinking about what he must be writing was almost too much to bare). And that good reason had just borne the ugly painful fruit she knew had been possible even as she had squashed that knowledge down as their friendship had stuttered to life. She didn't think she would ever get past that raid this morning, seeing him getting in way over his head _again_ , and then seeing him on the floor of that filthy den with blood over his face, alternatively blanking out and rambling in an incoherent disjointed stream of consciousness that was going to give her nightmares for weeks.

She had been right when she told him there couldn't be a next time.

 _He was just so damn lucky._

She couldn't take it if it happened again. She couldn't take being responsible for it, though she knew he would never hold her accountable.

All of a sudden, the ache of holding her poker face all morning, and the second shock when he had collapsed again in the break room, was becoming almost too much to continue carrying. She drew in a deep breath as the memory of that second time rose unbidden, almost a flash back. How he had seemed to just _fade away_ in front of her; his skin blanching, eyes staring at her, through her, like he had back at the house when she thought he was dying. She remembered with cold dread how he had reached out for her, or tried to. And she'd grabbed him back, snatching desperately at his arms, his coat, but could not stop the slow decent as he slid from the stool. Couldn't help him. Couldn't stop it from happening again. Helpless. Little more than a bystander as he disappeared into the fog inside his own head. Again. It didn't help one bit that it had been nothing more than a sugar low. And the memory roared through her. She grabbed her eyes, covered them against it.

She drew in another breath. Held it. Let it out. Again. Willed her heart to stop pounding in her chest. And fought with herself to regain control.

Kate Beckett was not one to run or shy from life. It was something she just couldn't do. It wasn't in her DNA she supposed. The precinct counsellor she had been ordered to see after the first shooting she had been involved with at the 12th had put it bluntly, but clearly: _some people run and some people freeze when they are threatened or afraid Detective Beckett, but some have a different instinct. Like you, their reaction to fear is to fight._ _And there is nothing wrong with that reaction._ _It is perfectly natural, and today it saved your life._ _It only becomes a problem if that instinct takes over and becomes the single unthinking default setting beyond the points of conflict inherent in police work._ _Do you think that is what is happening Detective?_ She had never answered that question. What need was there? That shooting had solidified her reputation as an officer that was not to be tangled with lightly and that was like gold. She was aware of her looks, she wasn't a fool, and she had needed every tool at her disposal to take the focus off her face and establish a respected position in the precinct. And so if an automatic fight reaction bought that for her then all well and good.

She could live with that.

It being a natural reaction, didn't mean she wasn't right about a situation, a person. And she was right about Castle and what had to happen, even if it was going to hurt even more than she had realised it would. The image of him lying in the house suddenly came to her again. Icy adrenaline stabbed into her stomach as the memory rose: that look in his eyes when she finally reached him on the floor of the house: bloodied, disconnected, unfocussed, so clearly not-Castle and possibly, mostly likely, having something inside of him going terribly wrong from Baxter's blows. Having to helplessly watch it happen. No. No, it didn't matter why he did it, though she knew she was deliberately shying away from that question, he just couldn't be allowed to be in a situation that had the potential to inspire him to do it again. She couldn't let it happen again. And she would have to see to it that he didn't get the opportunity. She could do that, that was something she had the power to make happen. Then he would go home to his family, his daughter, alive. And he would stay that way.

The elevator dinged as it lurched to a stop, and moment later the doors juddered open and she was hit with the smell, the sound, the churning motion that was the bullpen. She hesitated for the space of a breath to steady her nerves and push down the lump in her throat that threatened to waive her resolve. She had a job to do. She would do her duty as a police officer. She was going to save a life today, and send a father home to his daughter, a son to his mother, and she was damn well going to do it without the hesitation that would come from within her if she didn't get a grip on herself. Detective Beckett stepped from the elevator and began to walk to her desk.

"Hey Beckett." She hadn't made it three strides before O'Brien called out from his desk where he was surrounded by three more detectives. Three stooges. "So is it true?"

"Is what true Dave?" She asked, pleased to hear the indifferent authority, the all business snap to her voice. And equally pleased that she didn't break stride. Damn the man.

"That Castle's deaf." O' Brien asked, his big booming voice instantly crushing the usual hubbub of the workspace. O'Brien had never been known for his delicacy. And those who hadn't already been staring at her, were absolutely doing so now. "That's what's all over the Net, ain't that right Wikowski?" O'Brien called out across the room.

"It's what everyone's saying." A voice called out. Beckett felt a new flash of anger and cursed that counsellor for being right.

"What Mr Castle is or is not is his business." She returned, and reached her desk. O'Brien was spoiling for a confrontation. He had been ever since their last altercation months ago. She had shut that one down as well and she would be damned if she wouldn't do it again. And she would be doubly damned if she would let Castle be used by this asshole this way.

"But you'd know right? You and him being all-"

"Being all _what_ Dave?" She looked up with a jerk of her head, really angry now. And it must have showed in her eyes because the three men standing in their stupid huddle around the seated O'Brien suddenly scattered. She took two strides to get across to her target. He didn't look the least bit phased and greeted her approach with a grin. "Being all what?" She repeated, standing over him.

"You know." He said, tapping his pen on his desk. He shrugged. Grinned. His bushy eyebrows rose in suggestion.

"No, I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" She returned and waited, but he didn't speak again, just grinned. Though she could see his blustery gleam lose its zeal. "That's what I thought. Get back to work Dave." When she turned to go back to her desk, the rest of the bullpen dissembled from their gawping cluster like tenpins in front of a bowling ball. And Wikowski was nowhere in sight which was good luck for him. But she did see some familiar faces staring out from the break room window.

Feeling jumpy with adrenaline, she headed for the room and entered without hesitation. Four startled faces greeted her and she had to put a clamp on her anger or she was going to say something she would later regret. And these people were her friends, her colleagues, her responsibility, and she felt the weight of it all keenly. This was a bad situation. She needed to protect them all as best as she could whilst she did what she knew she had to do. She took a deep controlling breath.

"Captain Montgomery is on his way." She said after a long pause. "We have about 10 minutes before he gets back to his office."

"What are you going to tell him?" Lanie asked, clearly anxious. Clearly thinking she had a plan to save Castle. She wasn't going to forgive her for this, maybe ever.

"The truth." She answered carefully, avoiding looking at Castle. "That Castle is deaf, though I think he is already aware of that by now, and that he withheld that information from us leading to a potentially life threatening situation. Namely, his own potential serious injury. Or death. And the potential death or serious injury of the officers participating in the raid." And instantly the room was a cacophony of protest and disbelief. Which she withstood with the same resolve as she had stared down O'Brien. And she eventually found her gaze falling upon the one silent point of calm in the room: Castle. He was staring at her, face like chalk, looking like he'd just been hit. Again. She watched him blink. Watched him swallow her statement down like a dose of medicine he knew had been coming.

"No." He suddenly spoke, voice rasping over the syllable. He kept his eyes on her. "No, she's right."

"What?" Espo barked.

"She's right." He repeated, still watching her. "I did withhold that information. I did-"

"Castle!" Lanie interrupted. Then she turned to Beckett, to confront her friend. "Are you out of your mind? They'll charge him with -"

"No, they won't." Beckett interrupted this time. "The Captain, the mayor, won't want this becoming some protracted public spectacle. They'll want it to go away as quickly as it can. There won't be any charges."

"But Castle will have to leave." Lanie said.

"Yes. He will." And he'll be _alive_. Please understand Lanie. Please.

"You've really put some thought into this haven't you?" Ryan spoke up, voice quiet, disbelieving. Espo was shaking his head in that way her reserved for those who had truly overstepped the mark and it was not lost on her that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Castle. What the hell had been going on in this room while she was processing Carmichael?

"What else can I do Ryan?" She looked at him directly. She was right. It was killing her, but she was right and she had to stick with what she knew had to be done. What mattered was that Castle was alive, and she was going to keep him that way. "I'm backed into a corner. The Captain, the mayor, have nowhere to go. The press is all over it. The bullpen is no better. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"What you know you have to do." Castle spoke again. "You know, if - if you hadn't said it, I was going to." Kate stared, suddenly floored. In some vague way, she was aware they were all staring, but Castle had all of her attention and she was having trouble processing what she was hearing. How could they still be so in sync, even now, at the end? The shock of it balled up like grief in her throat. "Beckett's right: there's no way out of this. I lied to you. I lied to everyone because I thought I could handle it, and I didn't think through what might eventually happen. So, I - I am going to do what I should have done right from the start. I'll tell the Captain the truth. And, and if he'll let me, I'll leave quietly."

There was utter silence in the room.

"And you're really ok with that? Castle?" Lanie suddenly spoke. Her voice barely rose above the silence, and maybe because of the quiet in the room Castle didn't miss it.

"No." He said, turning to her. "No, I'm not. But Beckett's right, it's the right thing to do. It's the only thing to do." He nodded at Kate then, and pressed his lips together in a failed, hurting attempt at a smile. She mirrored it back to him and he took a deep breath and winced. His hand shifted to his ribs. " Let's go see the Captain."

The End

Next time, as promised, things will start to look up.


	9. Chapter 9

OK. The next instalment. There will be one more after this. Phew, my two parter has grown legs! And as promised things take a turn for the better in this part. It does start off angsty, but ends someplace much better. I hope it works. I really do. Please let me know your thoughts. I appreciate them all.

V

V

V

Castle walked beside Beckett on the short journey to Captain Montgomery's office. Every footfall dragged. In a handful of minutes his time at the 12th was going to come to an end and he would leave the building; ejected into the media scrum outside to start his new life as _that deaf author_ guy _, you know, the one who's deaf._ There would be endless hounding by the press. He would be flat out trying to fend them away from Alexis and his mother. Gina would be demanding he do interviews. Chat shows confessionals. Entertainment spots. _And one of those daytime biographical movies._ Oh. My. God. The pressure of that coming horror show was growing with every movement towards the Captain's office. He felt weighted down with dread.

Right now he could not imagine returning to his old life. Though it wouldn't _be_ his old life. Maybe he should rephrase that: he couldn't imagine returning to a life without the 12th. Without the blurry electric rumble and occasional roar of the bullpen, the bustle of the precinct as they worked the evidence and made the connections; and the jolting thrill of the 5am wakeup call and Beckett's clipped _'we have a body'_ better than any espresso. And without the unexpected joy at finding a such a kindred spirit in the cop he had been assigned to shadow. It had been the best time of his life if he was honest. And now it was all over. All over. Emotion suddenly swelled in his chest and he stopped. He couldn't walk another step -

"Beckett-"

"Castle-"

He looked at her, surprised and not surprised that they had spoken at the same time, responding to the same urge, and felt himself swallowed up in the tightly held misery that he saw in her eyes. Where moments ago, she had pushed her way into the break room almost ethereal with that familiar searing diamond-forging ferocity that he had seen melt many a guilty party into a confession, now it was just a brittle hollowed shadowed face that looked just how he felt.

And then, they both moved at the same time. Exit stage left. Into the nearest storage room. Castle jerked the door shut behind them. It was dark. He fumbled for the light, yanked the cord in an aching hand, and with a flat clack they were bathed in the dim glow of the cheap naked bulb dangling overhead.

"Beckett, I'm sorry." The words just tumbled out. He watched her take them in, saw the surging flicker of that anger return and he shook his head. "No, no, not like that. Please let me explain. If this is going to be my last day here, if we never see each other again, I have to explain. I should have told you about my hearing the first day we met. I should have, but I didn't because - because I was only thinking about myself and about what I needed from the 12th, from you, and I didn't think beyond that. I don't think I even understood how to think beyond that.

"I- I've never been part of a team before, and I didn't realise," he paused, searching for a better word, "I didn't _understand_ what being part of one really meant. That any decision of mine could so affect everyone else wasn't something I even contemplated. And for letting you down, for being a thoughtless idiot, because of that, I am truly truly sorry.

"Castle-"

"No, please let me finish. Please." He drew a breath. "This is about more than that though, I know that now. What happened today in that house- I hope you can understand that I couldn't _not_ do what I did."

"Couldn't _not_ Castle? You jumped on a man at least twice your size! What were you thinking?" She interrupted him without warning. The question burst from her lips like it had been pent up there since this morning. Maybe it had. " Why didn't you call out? Castle you are a civilian-" Her voice was thin and raw with memory. And seeing the sudden naked pain in her face felt like a violation, like he should cover his eyes and turn away from something he wasn't supposed to see.

"I was thinking that there was no time. He was huge Kate. If I hadn't-" He almost choked on his words. "I couldn't- I- Kate." He stopped, clenched his teeth and forced himself to slow down, though the desperation to make himself understood in the scant minutes they had left was making him shiver. "If I had hesitated he would have been on you. And Kate he was huge. He had hands like dinner plates! I was thinking that I had to save you." He waved with both arms, caught up in the moment and both of his damaged hands abruptly connected with a shelf of toner cartridges. Pain like a lightning bolt shot through him and he saw white. Fuck! He yanked his hands back towards his chest.

" _something_!" And he felt hands on his forearms, pulling. Pain sparkled along his bones. He grunted. _Oh fuck that hurt!_ Then those grasping fingers slid further along his arms, and pulled at his elbows, gentle but insistent, taking the weight of his hands. Someone was talking. Beckett. Oh!

"- You're ok. You're ok. Try to relax. It's ok. Let me see. Castle?"

"Oooow." He managed. And Beckett's face suddenly came back into focus. He stared at her as she down at his hands where she still held them close to her with a steady familiar strength. She looked them over until he felt like he was a fragile piece of crime scene evidence, but the touch of her skin against his was nothing short of narcotic. Better than a pain killer. He could barely feel the agony in his hands. "Kate? Do you understand what I am saying? About Baxter. I couldn't _do_ _anything else_."

"You shouldn't have been there." He had to strain to hear her, her words were almost too quiet for him to grasp the meaning with her head bent over his hands, and soft tendrils of hair obscuring her face. _What? Of course he should have been there._

"Beckett, I'm your partner. Of course I should have been there." He countered.

"You're a civilian observer Castle." She said, looking up at him again. Brittle once more and her fingers curling tight into the bones of his elbows. He wondered if she knew she was doing it?

"Well - no amount of _not being_ a civilian observer was going to stop Baxter this morning." He countered, hurt by her correction. He watched her process what he had said, and saw the tension rise in her again. Watched her lips press together. Watched her short sharp flick of a headshake, held back by corded tendons and tight muscles.

"You don't understand." She said.

"So help me understand. Beckett please. Talk to me."

"It was my fault." He almost missed the words. _What? No._ He shook his head. "No, Castle. You've had your turn. Now it's mine." She said quietly, but with the same steely resolve she had used in the break room. He knew better than to fight her when she sounded like that. "It was my fault. You are a civilian Castle. I shouldn't have let you come into the field with us like that. But I did and - Castle-" She stopped and he watched her swallow. He saw the memories crowd in. "You don't know what it was like watching it happen. Knowing that I couldn't get there fast enough to stop that bastard-! Knowing that I was the one who put you there. And afterwards-" Her words choked off, and he felt her hands leave his arms, felt their painful weight become his to bear again, and then she was stepping back though there was hardly any room to move around in here.

Espo, Ryan, Lanie: they had been right. He'd been such an idiot.

"Beckett-"

"I can't let it happen again." Was she telling him or herself? "You have to understand Castle, I am not doing this because I like it. I am not getting some perverse thrill out of having you leave. I just can't - I won't - " She stopped again.

"I meant what I said earlier you know." He told her. "About telling Captain Montgomery everything. About my hearing. About how I lied to everyone, to him too. That's how I was going to fix it.

"I should never have held back about my hearing. I should have let Gina talk me into telling everyone years ago. But," he paused, considering his next words, " if I had I would probably never have met you. And for that part I can never be sorry." She was staring at him now and he found he couldn't read her expression. He ploughed on. " And I am also not sorry that I stopped Baxter from attacking you. That was my choice. My decision. And I'd do it all again, just the same."

" I could have stopped you-" She said.

"No, you couldn't."

"I could have ordered you to the back."

"I'd have found my way back to the front."

"I could have ordered you to stay in the car."

"And since when has that ever worked? I have had a free pass to follow you around since the first day I arrived. I know, I read the agreement. You couldn't have stopped me if I wanted in." He watched her internalise that. Hoped she would see it the truth of it in his eyes.

"You were really going to tell Montgomery? Everything?"

"Everything." He agreed.

"Even if it meant he _did_ terminate the agreement? Really? That was your plan?" She regarded him flatly, cautiously, disbelievingly.

"Well, he'd have to make a recommendation to the Mayor to do that. And I can't deny I would have been hoping that he didn't do it. Or that Bob didn't agree to it." He said ruefully. This room was as tight as a confessional and it seemed to be having that effect on him. He couldn't stop himself. "Look, Kate, I know that you aren't doing this out of spite. You don't have that in you. It's one of the many things I lo- admire about you actually. There's no other way option left than what we are doing. But it has to be _we_ , not just _you_. _I_ did this. I- " The door suddenly rattled behind his back. "Occupied!" He yelled without thinking. The rattling stopped. Someone said something, but he couldn't make it out. It wasn't important anyway. Their time was running out.

"I guess, I just- wanted you to know. Before we see Montgomery. I wanted you to know that I was sorry for not telling you about my hearing. I wanted you to know that it wasn't your fault what happened. And I am so so sorry for putting you through it all. I thought, I hoped, we could still -"

And suddenly, shockingly, he had his arms full of Kate Beckett.

One step forward and she was right inside his personal space, almost touching his chest. The fine elegant lines of her face were transformed by a dense urgent tangle of emotion that snatched his breath from his lungs. And her hand, it reached upward, fingers settling in cool gentle lines against his jaw. He couldn't move.. Time felt suspended. He was deaf to everything outside this room. Truly deaf. It was just the two of them in the universe. Then those fingers moved, sliding along his hot skin until they cradled the back of his head, and curling inward pulling him towards her. And he still didn't dare breathe. Their foreheads pushed together. Pressed there. He let out the breath he had been holding. Eye to eye, face to face, their breath mingling hot and humid, it was more intimate than a kiss. And he understood. He understood. And he could see, so did she. It felt like a victory snatched from the devil himself.

And then someone thumped the door again. There was a man's voice that sounded familiar. Rick drew in a breath to yell something angry. He stopped. Stared at her. He knew that look: she knew who it was at the door. He opened his mouth to ask, but Beckett laid a warning finger against his lips and he stopped. His brain stopped. Everything stopped. Her finger against his mouth was suddenly the single most erotic and intimate thing he had ever experienced. But then-

"Is that you in there Castle? Beckett?"

"Montgomery." He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, and only realising only the last syllable that there was a second voice that had joined him. He flicked his eyelids open again, catching Beckett's eye as she pulled away from him, as that finger left his lips. The moment was gone, but he could still feel it pulling at him. He almost fell leaning after her.

"Open this damn door." The Captain called again and Rick flinched. Oh boy, was he pissed. It was to be expected, but it was still a bit terrifying. Rick twisted around and reached for the knob. He pulled open the door and stuck out his head. And there was Montgomery, cell phone in his hand, looking every bit as intimidating as every single school principal that had ever expelled him, combined.

"And Beckett?"

"Here sir." She appeared from behind Rick's shoulder. Oh and they had a crowd watching too. _Oh better and better._ "Sir, I can explain-"

"Please don't." Their Captain snapped. "My office. Both of you. Now."

Rick tried to ignore the eyes following them as he and Beckett trailed behind their Captain. The march was thankfully a short one and within moments they were inside and the door was shut. He watched Montgomery walk around his desk, drop his cell phone onto it and resume his dour headmasterly aspect. Rick could feel Kate beside him, virtually radiating tension and it was all he could do not to reach out for her hand.

"Well. What a morning I have had with the Mayor." Montgomery began and Castle's heart sank to the floor.

"Sir, I can expla-"

"Can it Castle!'

" Yes sir. Canned."

"So as I was saying, I had my monthly meeting with Mayor Weldon this morning. We discussed the usual things: budget, staffing. And then, and then, one of the Mayor's staffers interrupted our nice quiet meeting with some news, some gossip." Oh no, here it comes. Rick could feel the volcano that was Captain Montgomery start to rumble. "Can you imagine our surprise to hear that our celebrity tag along has just been involved in a serious incident in our fair city which involved no less than one shooting and two hospitalisations? One of them his own. And if that wasn't bad enough, we then hear that this celebrity has been hiding something that, on the face of it, seems to have contributed to the mess that was this morning's incident. And we are hearing it, not from someone within the precinct or the hospital, but from social damn media."

"Sir, if you'll let me, I can explain-"

"I seriously doubt that you can Mr Castle." Oh no, _Mr_ Castle. _Mr_. "So is it true. Are you deaf?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"He is sir." Beckett chipped in and earned herself a Look.

"You knew about this?"

"Only after the aforesaid, rumoured, incident." Rick interjected. His words scurried together in a nervous string. "Not before that. She didn't- she didn't ahem know. I didn't tell -" He stopped. The glare was too bright.

"If I hadn't already has the preliminary report faxed over to me at the Mayor's office, I wouldn't need much to tell me the part about the hospitalisation was true as well." Montgomery carried on, sweeping a critical eye from Rick's scuffed too big shoes to his dishevelled hair. "What are you doing out of hospital anyway? On second thoughts, I don't want to know that either. But I _don't_ expect to be receiving any medical bills from you." Rick shook his head. He'd already signed that right away months ago. Damn good thing he was rich.

The Captain stopped then, and a long tight sigh flared his nostrils. Here it comes, here it comes. Rick braced for the blow.

" You are one lucky sonnavabitch Castle."

"What? - wait, _what_?" Rick blinked at the other man. Montgomery regarded him for a long disapproving second.

"What?" Rick's head whipped around as Kate spoke, then back to the Captain again.

"After our meeting was interrupted, it ended. The Mayor's people had to go into damage control. As you can imagine, the idea that the Mayor of New York City, in his election year, had potentially colluded with a celebrity with apparently serious medical issues to ride with some of this city's finest law enforcement, _in the field and into a shooting_ no less, might give his political enemies some fodder. Once his office and ours, verified the gossip as fact, serious decisions had to be made. and fast. And it was decided, against my wishes I might add, that the best way forward was - business as usual." Rick's head was spinning, he couldn't think straight. _Was the Captain saying what he thought he was saying?_

"I- I think I need to sit-" Rick managed to get out as his legs started to fold under him. And onto a chair that suddenly appeared under him. Kate's hands were back, gripping his shoulders, squeezing. He leaned into her and she was there, pushing back to keep him upright.

"Sir," Beckett spoke from above him. She was shocked, he could hear that. And relieved. She was relieved. He felt like dancing. "Are you saying that the Mayor has decided that Castle stay with the 12th?"

"He has." Montgomery sounded like he was chewing gravel now. Clearly he really wasn't on board with this. "And in fact, if Castle values his future in this city, he will."

"I don't understand." Kate said.

"I do." Rick found his voice. He watched Montgomery as he spoke, reading everything he could glean from face, body language, voice. "The Mayor can't back down. It's an election year. He could cancel the agreement and have me kicked out of the 12th, but if he does then he looks either guilty of conspiracy with a rich medically unfit celebrity to gain access to law enforcement which has now resulted in a shooting and that could have ended with loss of life; or, worse, that he was duped into allowing said medically unfit celebrity to mingle with the NYPD, which makes him look like a narcissistic sap more concerned with showing off his connections than protecting this fair city and the men and women who actually protect it. Either way he's screwed. If I stay on, there's a chance he can make this all go away."

"Spin." Kate sounded disgusted. But then, politics did disgust her routinely.

"Mmh." Castle nodded at her. "He spins it to look like the medically unfit celebrity is the hero of the hour, rides out the detractors with some sort of - _oh no_." Rick stopped. He felt his jaw go slack. He stared at Montgomery. " _Oh no. No_."

"Oh yes Mr Castle. _Oh yes_." Montgomery almost looked tickled at Rick's growing horror as he realised what was coming.

"OK, Sir, Castle. You've lost me."

"What do you give a hero, Detective Beckett?" Montgomery prompted Kate, and Rick suddenly wanted to find a box and hide in it.

"Oh no." Beckett had grasped it. And he felt the hands on his shoulders tighten. Ow. Ow. "No, sir. You can't be serious? The Mayor can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am serious. And so is the Mayor. And so Mr Castle, apart from my suspending your involvement with the 12th until you recover from your injuries, I suggest that you take that time to think of a suitable acceptance speech. That shouldn't be too hard for someone of your literary talents."

"Oh no, sir, please." Rick squirmed out from under Beckett's crushing grip. "You have to do something."

"It's already been decided Castle. It's out of my hands."

"Then I'll quit."

"You can't. You'll be finished in this city. You know the Mayor might be a fan of yours, but I would be careful if I were you: he is first and foremost a politician. And an ambitious one."

 _Oh my god._ Rick glanced up at Beckett, but she was unreadable.

There was a knock at the door. Esposito put his head in, eyes round, his entire being radiating his unease as he looked around the room.

"Ah, sorry to interrupt. I need Detective Beckett."

"Sir, may I-" Beckett queried, and was let go from the room with a nod from Montgomery. Once the two detectives had gone, the Captain picked up a file.

"Sir, what if I were to just _not recover_ from my injuries? Then I couldn't return, for a very very long time. And then Bob- the Mayor wouldn't need to go ahead with the uh, uh-"

"No, he's pretty set on it Castle."

"Crap."

"Indeed. You know maybe you should have used that creative mind of yours to think about what might happen if you _lie_ to the police. Before you actually did the lying."

There was silence. Montgomery read his file. Castle fidgeted and tried not to look out of the window towards Beckett's desk. A minute seemed to tick by.

"You know, you don't seem too shocked about my uh hearing."

"I have a cousin who is deaf. You'd never know it to talk to her. And I am a veteran with over 20 years on this job. Just about nothing surprises or shocks me anymore."

"Ookay."

"Ok, now Castle you're stalling. I suggest you man up and leave my office, and go find yourself a ride home. I'll be needing your input in the final report and I will be needing it yesterday."

And so Rick inched out of the Captain's office and eyed Beckett's desk, which was thankfully empty. Oh god this day was going to kill him. He started towards the elevator. Maybe he could use Lanie's phone to call his mother? He hunched his shoulders against the whispering and staring and walked. He forced his tired legs to eat up the floor as fast as possible, but then he caught a snatch of a voice as he made it to the break room and almost sagged to the floor with relief. Lanie. He wouldn't have to go hunting for her around the building.

"Lanie, I-" He spoke as he opened the door, and stopped as he came face to face with Ryan, Epsosito, Lanie and Kate. They stared. He stared back. Oh no. _Oh no._

"Beckett just told us you're getting some sort of hero award for this morning." Epso said, face like flint. "That right?"

"Oh, oh that. I well-"

"How the hell did you swing that?" Ryan put in. It sounded like an accusation. And Lanie just raised her eyebrows at him. Kate didn't even turn around from where she was at the coffee machine.

"Oh come on guys." His tired brain, running on nothing but adrenaline now he was sure, was scrambling. "Now- Who's that laughing? Beckett?"

And she was. Shoulder's shaking, head bobbing up and down. The peels of giggles sounded like church bells to his tired ears. Was that a snort? And that started them all off. Every single one of them. And Rick couldn't think anymore and it must have showed because the next second Lanie had an arm around him and was him pushing him back to that couch. He sat down, heavily.

"You're not mad." He said stupidly to Lanie over the giggling insanity that was the break room.

"Oh no honey. Kate told us all about it." And she started it as well. Big open giggles. "It's just too damn funny."

"Oh man. The look on your face!" Ryan's hand landed on his shoulder. "Welcome back to the 12th man." He slapped Rick's shoulder again. Rick tried not to wince. "Come on Javi, let's go do some real police work. Maybe, if we're really good the Mayor will give us a big shiny gold sticker too. Oh man, that's going to keep me going all day." And he and Javi headed out of the door, still giggling.

"Yeah well," Rick shot back, floundering for a good come back whilst still reeling over what was going on. "You know - you - you laugh like a pair of goats." Espo flipped him the bird as we went and didn't even turn around to do it.

"Oh, oh, well that's me out of here too." Lanie spoke up next. "I still expect to see you with that apology though Castle. And my expensive perfume." And then she was gone in a cloud of giggles and he was left with Beckett.

"That wasn't funny Beckett." He humphed as she sat down beside him, cradling a coffee in her hands.

"Well, from where I was standing it was pretty funny." He could see her eyes laughing at him over the steaming rim of the mug. It was the prettiest sight he never thought he would see again. "And you did sort of bring it on yourself."

"Yeah." He let his head roll back to lie against the back of the couch. "I guess I did." He touched her knee, ghosting over the denim. "So, uh, are we good. Um, I mean better. Than. Better than before? Anyway?" He stumbled over the words and watched her incline her head, her features blurring slightly in the vapour rising from that unbelievably awesome smelling coffee, as she considered his words.

"Working on it." She said eventually. He smiled.

End - until the next chapter. Please let me know what you think :)


	10. Chapter 10

Hello everyone. Another chapter. Yes indeedy. Sorry it's been a bit long in the making, but I have been struggling with it a bit. Real life and real issues crafting it how I wanted with constant interruptions. But now it seems to be done. And of course, it's not yet the final chapter because I have realised that it didn't want to end just yet.

Thank you to everyone who has continued to follow, read and comment on this fic. You are all awesome! A big shout out to Shutterbug5269 for the heads up on some info that I should have been aware of. I hope that I have done some justice to the catch and the ongoing conversation we have been having about what to do about it. Nervous...

Anyway, I hope you like this one. The next chapter will take a few days due to real life intervening as always. Thank you all once again for sticking with me. And once again gratuitously begging for feedback!

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In the break room, Kate had given Castle her cell phone whilst she and her coffee had returned to Captain Montgomery's office to ask permission to take the writer home. She would have preferred he return to the hospital, but he had begged her outright not to take him there. She couldn't blame him for that. She wasn't a huge fan of hospitals either, and what was likely now waiting for him outside the doors of the 12th made going anywhere but the safety of home unthinkable really. So she had agreed to take him home if Montgomery would release her. That way she could be sure he would get there and be safely delivered into Martha and Alexis' hands. But first, she knew her part of the conversation with the Captain had been cut short by Espo's interruption and he would be expecting her return.

And he was.

She had barely tapped the door with her knuckles before she heard his curt: "Come!"

"Sir..." She spoke as she entered the room. Montgomery was sitting at his desk, pen in hand, files open, laptop open. All business. Kate tried to keep the edginess out of her voice, her body language, as she waited for him to look up.

"Ah, Detective Beckett. Castle gone home?" Her Captain spoke, finally making eye contact with her.

"No sir. If you could spare me I was going to drive him home myself." She said. "Esposito and Ryan have things under control and Louis Carmichael has asked for a lawyer before we interview him. We have about an hour before she arrives."

"Carmichael?"

"The uh new suspect in the Baxter case, sir. It looks like Baxter wasn't calling the shots as well as making them. It looks like that honour lies with Carmichael, Baxter's lawyer. Or whomever is controlling Carmichael. It looks like this goes much further than we thought. " She watched Montgomery's eyebrows rise, and tried not to white knuckle her coffee cup.

"I see. That makes things more - interesting." He said calmly, but the gleam in his eye was unmistakeable. It would be a point back in his favour if the Captain had something juicy to put into his next report for the Mayor. God, she hated politics. "Good work Detective."

"Actually sir, it was Castle who put the pieces together."

"Castle." Montgomery repeated, nodding thoughtfully. He dropped his pen to the desk top. "Yes, we were interrupted about the Castle incident. Where is he now?"

"Break room. He's calling ahead to the loft, trying to arrange a discrete entry to his building."

"Good luck with that."

"Yeah." She felt her tongue stick on the word and Montgomery pursed his lips.

"OK Detective. This morning. Tell me what happened."

 _Tell me what happened_. And just how to do that? The morning had been nothing short of one of the most harrowing of her career and he was asking her to put it out in there, right now, in a rundown that would later mirror her report. How could she do that? The tangled up, complicated mess that was the raid and its aftermath, and the Mayor's surprise reaction, had her so unprepared for this inevitable and predictable question from her boss that she was unable to answer him. At least not right away.

"Sir, before we go into this morning's raid, may I ask about Mayor Weldon's decision to keep Castle attached to the 12th?"

"You may not."

"Sir!" Kate couldn't help the flare of anger in her voice; the control she had over her frayed nerves was wearing thin. She had thought she had lost her partner twice this morning, had been steeling herself to help the wheels turn to have him removed from the precinct for his own safety, and she couldn't bring herself to even touch upon the intense moment they had shared in the stationary cupboard right now. She was exhausted. Edgy. She'd even giggled like a damn kid in the break room, the stress of the day destroying any attempt she made to hold it together as the others decided the Mayor award was so hilarious they needed to prank Castle. And on top of that, though she felt that she and Castle were inching towards a place where she could perhaps work with him to prevent future incidents like this morning, she was not that far from removed from her original position: to keep Castle alive against his better judgement. And so to have any hope of protecting him ripped from her with the stroke of a politician's pen without even being able to ask why, was purely and simply outrageous. Her anger, her instinct to fight, flared and pushed at the threads of her tattered self-possession. "Sir, Mayor Weldon's office may have a firm grip on the pulse of the city's media, but some sound bite confirmations from someone who probably wasn't even there this morning, does not give him the right to make arbitrary decisions about someone's life! Castle-"

" _Detective Beckett!_ " Montgomery stood to his full height behind his desk. "I will remind you to watch what you say. The Mayor's office have made their decision based upon sound advice, and relied upon credible witnesses to confirm this morning's events. However, they also have to take into account a number of considerations that perhaps those from outside his office may find difficult to understand or accept. As I said earlier, this is an election year, with all the machinations and devices that go with it. And what Castle did, withholding his condition and apparently flinging himself in between you and a very very large, very very angry man, _yes I have more information than you might think Detective_ , has put the election campaign into a very difficult position."

"The _campaign_ -" Kate almost choked on the word.

"Yes Detective, the campaign. What Castle has done is put the spotlight on himself, his relationship with the Mayor, the conduct of this precinct and your own judgement." He said, and Kate winced. "You took a civilian, the famous Richard Castle no less, into a police action that appears to have nearly cost him is life. You allowed him to participate despite the fact that he has no training to do so and no one, as far as I can fathom, was assigned to him during the operation."

"Sir," Kate reacted without thinking, going on the defensive. "You know that Castle has accompanied myself and my team on numerous actions in the field before without-"

"Has he?" Montgomery said, looking deliberately obtuse. "Oh, even better. He has been put in the firing line on multiple occasions!"

"Sir, that's not how-" And she suddenly understood. He was letting her vent and demonstrating where her fighting the Mayor was going to end up. Still... "What are you getting at? That if I push to have Castle benched, to protect him, that the fallout is going to come back on us, on me?"

"Beckett, the fallout from this is going to come back on everyone, from every angle. There's even talk of a lobby group, a deaf citizens of New York activist group, that is going to take action against the City, against the Precinct, against you and I, for failing in our duty of care under the Americans with Disabilities Act."

"What?"

"Castle is deaf. If the Mayor's office makes a move to remove him they can argue that the primary motivation is discriminatory. As it is we are going to be audited to make sure that we can and will accommodate his needs to ensure his safety and his fair and equitable treatment whilst he is at this station ."

"But Castle didn't tell anyone in this precinct, or the Mayor. And anyway, his hearing is not the entire story."

"Doesn't matter. As I said: this is an election year."

"Sir -"

"Beckett." He interrupted, but the fire had gone out of his eyes. "Look, I know it's part of you to want to protect those around you, both in and out of uniform. It's part of what makes you a great cop. But what is going on here has very little to do with being a good Detective, a good person, and a lot to do with smoothing the political waters as fast, and as with as few waves, as possible. And that means that Castle has to stay: right where he is. With you."

Kate stared at Montgomery, pursed her lips.

"What if I don't want him in the field with me anymore."

"That could be difficult to accommodate right now, Detective." Montgomery said. "But," and he sighed. " I think we might be able to get a little creative around the edges of his agreement with the City, _if_ we are discrete about it." He held up an index finger as Beckett nodded. " _Very_ discrete."

"Understood." Kate felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. The political powers that be had rendered any objections she had to Castle's continuing presence moot, but perhaps it would still be possible to reshape his involvement in the field? The supply cupboard conversation had changed things for her, for them both, but she could not ever consider his safety as second to satisfying his enthusiasm for their work. There had to be a way to manoeuvre through the political wagon circle that had sprung up around the Mayor and his political allies. If there was, she would find it.

"I hope so Detective. The last thing we need is a lawsuit right now." Montgomery went on, and then paused and she recognized that look. What had he picked up upon? "You said that Castle's hearing was only part of the issue this morning? I think you had better sit down and fill me in on this other part." He sat down himself as Kate scrambled for words. Sometimes Montgomery was just too sharp. She followed him down to sit in her own chair.

"Castle." She said, and paused. Considering. "He thinks he's seen what we do, what he thinks we do, and that there is no reason why he can't join in."

"In this instance it was to protect you, an officer of the law, when you were in need of help."

"Exactly."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He - Well, he- I- He thinks he's Dirty Harry, sir. He thinks he's seen all our moves and he can just, just join in."

"And he can't-?"

"Yes, I mean no, no he can't. What happened this morning was that he was nearly killed, trying to - trying to protect m- an officer of the law when he should have stayed out of it."

"Which is why the Mayor wants to give him a medal. And don't look at me like that Detective. I know what nearly happened this morning, and you are having a tough time with it. I can see that. But that's what people do in life, whether they wear a uniform or not, they make decisions to protect one another when the situation calls for it."

"But-"

"But nothing. What Castle did this morning was to make a decision to protect someone when it was needed. It was a damn brave thing to do. I know: I've seen Baxter. Now that someone that Castle made a decision to protect happened to be you." He looked her pointedly. "And I know just how much that gets under your skin. I do. But that man saved your bacon today, possibly your life, and that is a _hellava_ thing to swallow down. I understand what you are going through, better than you might think. But that is for you to deal with. You and Castle. And I suggest that you _do_ deal with it because he's going to be around this place for a while yet."

"Sir." Kate acknowledged his words, feeling like she'd just been ambushed and shown up all at the same time. Damn the man...

"Now, Castle needs to go home. And you need to be back in one hour to interview Carmichael. Dismissed Detective."

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

Castle was just about asleep.

Finally.

Kate snatched a glance at him as she turned their car away from the 12th and blended them into the traffic; anonymous and innocuous, just another vehicle in a river of many. All the cameras and reporters were left far behind them, at last. Beside her Castle was hunched into his seat, his broad frame filling the cramped space and his knees pressing against the glove compartment, watching as the city rolled passed them. And he was starting to drift with the quiet rumble of the car. She could see it in the slow nod of his head; in the relaxing of his bruise stained jaw; and in how his unbroken hand had started to release its clench to lie curled now in his lap. In a few more minutes he would be out. And after the near riot of their escape from the precinct, she was relieved for him.

The number of reporters and camera crews that had been waiting for them as they left the station had been truly staggering. And truly awful. A sea swell of human greed that slammed into them, and like a roaring wave it rocked into their car and broke over it. And oh my god, the _noise_ of it. The calling, shouting and blows to the windows, the roof, calling for Castle to come out, for her to stop the car. Instantly she had been reminded of that zombie movie cliché: hordes of slavering mindless creatures descending upon a victim's car, swarming and swarming until the long camera pull back reveals the vehicle vanishing under a mass of Undead - never to be seen again. Swallowed up. Gone. In the thunderous rush of the moment as she hunched over the steering wheel slowly pressing the car through the hard fought for human corridor of straining unis, and above her anger, she had felt the pull of it, that unconscious _pause_ in her thinking as she waited for him to make those same cinematic connections and start cracking apocalypse movie jokes. With the both of them starring as the leads of course.

But it didn't happen.

And when she looked over at him, she could see why. _God..._ She didn't think she had ever seen Richard Castle _cower_ before. But there was no mistaking that that was what he was doing. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, and was forever annoying her by taking up more space than seemed polite. It was a routine frustration of their driving around together that he routinely got his knee in the way of the gear stick, thumped into her if he leaned even a little towards the driver's seat (which he was wont to do in moments of excitement), and smacked his head on the door getting in and out of the car. But now... Now, all of that big burly presence had shrunk down to fit neatly inside the confines of his car seat as he curled into himself, back arched against the door, splinted hand up as if warding off a blow to the back of his head. It was so completely shocking to see that for a moment Kate nearly choked on the sight and the car jerked to one side as she clenched the wheel. It was the body language of someone who had had enough; everything was defensive and in retreat. Losing ground and knowing it. Exhausted. Spent. And behind him, framed in the car window, the noise and the press of distorted faces and camera lenses, just kept on hunting him and hunting him as if they could smell the end was near.

"Castle!" She called out. He didn't react. _Of course-_ She pulled hand from the wheel and reached out to grab his knee. His hand instantly came down on top of hers, gripping so tightly she felt her bones creaking. She bore it without moving away and pressed down harder herself feeling the muscle and bone of him resisting the grasp of her fingers. And it was worth the pain, because he finally looked up to find her face, but now with eyes that showed that he was beyond compensating for his hearing loss. He didn't even track near her lips and instead roved unsteadily over her face. She watched him take fast shallow breaths. And so she learned something else terrible and new: that when Castle was exhausted that incredible ability of his to co-ordinate all his senses to compensate for his hearing just unravelled like so much fraying cloth. And so she put it all into her eyes, in to the grit of her teeth, the hard planes of her face. _It's ok. Its fine._ _Just hang on._ _Hang on to me._ This was them. Together. They would be ok. It was almost over. He watched her steadily, and then squeezed his eyes shut.

Kate had pressed down on the gas then, using the flare of the engine's roar as a warning to the uniforms outside the car that she was getting impatient. The car throbbed under them, rearing up as she stayed on the brake. And then the unis were winning the battle, the crowds were parted by force and she released the brake and eased back on the gas. And they were moving. She kept her hand on his knee. He didn't let her go.

Castle didn't let go of her hand until well after they had lost sight of the flashing cameras and shouting reporters, and even then it was only a lessening of the crushing grip he had on her. And eventually she was the one who had to pull free, to have both hands on the wheel to avoid crashing into a parked car that suddenly cut in front of them. They drove on until they were stopped by traffic lights. And she took the opportunity to check on him again. He was stilled curled towards her, but now it was more of a slump than a rigid bending of spine and limbs. He was staring out of the front window, his face in deepening lines of pain and fatigue.

"Castle-" She started, before remembering how futile her voice was right now. Right. Touch then. She reached over once more, this time feathering her fingers against his hot cheek, trying not to startle him. It worked and it caught his attention. "OK?" He watched her dully for a long second and she let her fingers settle along his jaw, lightly covering some of the bruises there. Her thumb smoothed along the unblemished skin along his cheekbone. A ghost of a smile touched his lips in reflex.

"Had better days." He said finally.

"Yeah." She gave a tired faint smile. "Me too."

"Sorry."

She shook her head, dismissing his apology. "Don't be." She whispered, pleased that his gaze dipped this time to catch her voice on her lips. And she surprised herself that she truly meant it. "Let's get you home."

End

But of course not the end of the fic! The next chapter will find Beckett, Castle and other back at the loft and in a much better place than they were.


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry for the gap between chapters. RL has been hectic and so I am a bit nervous how this chapter had turned out. Hope its ok. And hope to hear from you!

Note for the recent review comment about Castle hiding his hearing: there is a reason for why he has done what he's done. I have hinted at it in a previous chapter and will return to it very soon. Its a little more complicated than it might appear and more so than Castle himself has admitted to so far.

V

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After breaking through the media scrum around the precinct, the rest of the ride back to Rick's loft was quiet. Just the rumble of the car's engine filling his ears and Beckett's very serious profile in his direct line of sight. Her gaze was steely, mouth fixed in a dour line, staring down the road like a guilty suspect in Interview. The sight was an odd mix of intimidating and calming in its familiarity, it's very routineness. Because no matter the occasion, Kate Beckett always drove so very seriously. So much so it could be a very grim and severe experience riding shotgun with her, he knew, but there was also such a degree of awesome in it that he gladly weathered the chipped irritation in her commands to sit back in his seat, get his knee out of her gearstick, and stop shouting when she was _right freaking next to him_ , because Beckett was just a natural born driver. Even when it was chaos in the street chasing down a suspect at huge and terrifying speeds, inside Beckett's vehicle it was always calm and controlled. She was purposeful, graceful and precise even under the most intense pressure, and she just _knew_ where her cruiser was on the road, amongst the traffic, the way a cat knows just where its body is and needs to be as it navigates the family mantelpiece without dislodging a single ornament or photo frame. And she was utterly relentless in a pursuit, pushing her vehicle to the very edge of its design capacity, but the way she made it look so meditative in its effortlessness was just so freaking awesome. Like a zen master.

Like a total badass.

And so Nikki Heat drove like that too. Because Beckett did. Such was the privilege of writing fiction, and he was taking that as licence to make it so. And anyway it was so cool, how could let his heroine drive any other way? So Rick rested his head against his seat and watched Beckett drive, studying her, letting his mind wander through descriptive prose that might end up colouring future driving scenes of Nikki's. _Wander_ was the word though. His tired mind couldn't seem to hold a constructive thought at the moment. He felt fractured and useless, unable to focus for more than a second on anything, let alone the literary. All his thoughts, such as they were, just kept settling like falling leaves back down into the truth that was how incredible Beckett was. And she was. Really. But rather than float in that thought, he kept trying to find his way back into the words, because it was useful to distract himself from how physically and emotionally drained he was. And how much he was hurting. And the embarrassment he felt at how overwhelmed he had become as they faced and fled the media back at the 12th.

He hadn't meant to breakdown like that. And certainly _not_ in front of Beckett.

He watched her suddenly change gear: one slim hand dipping to find the stick and press her fingers behind it, guiding it into the next gear with such a light touch it was more like she was showing it the way than actually moving it around. _Kick. Ass._

And so he had flipped out a little bit back at the 12th. But she had found him like she always did, without judgement or question, pulling him along with her out of harm's way. He could still feel the dig of her fingers over his knee, each point like an anchor. And he hadn't been able stop himself grabbing onto that lifeline, holding on way too tight he was sure though she didn't complain. He clutched at her in sheer stupid relief. Exhaustion, pain, and the shock of a morning that had turned his world upside down and shaken it half to death had scattered his thoughts, unravelled his control, and the crushing melee of reporters and camera crews slamming into the door behind him had felt like the final push off the cliff. Until she offered him her hand and, as he looked up at her, some her strength of will as well, and not a small measure of warmth. And he wasn't ashamed to say he'd taken that as well as he started to try to pull himself out of the tail spin he'd fallen in to. Because in that moment he had realised something far more important than his dented pride:

 _They were still partners._

That hand on his knee, that intensity of feeling in her invitation to hold on to her, to take what he needed from her- They were _still_ partners. He had felt in the ferocity of that grip that they were still _they_ not just because Montgomery and the Mayor said it had to be so, but because Beckett herself still felt it, wanted it. And so it also meant that the conversation in the stationary cupboard, amongst the paper clips and toner cartridges, _had_ meant as much as he thought it had. She _did_ understand. She might not like his choices and what had happened because of them, that was fairly clear, but she _did_ understand. _God..._ Thank you Lanie, Espo and Ryan for setting him down the right path; for making him see what was really at the root of her anger, her distress. And so they were still partners, were _going to be_ into the future as well he could see. And not just on paper. The relief was excruciating, overwhelming, exhausting. He had had to eventually shut his eyes, squeeze the lids against the swell of emotion in his throat, though he hadn't relinquished his crushing grip on her hand.

And later on, when the media hunt was fading far behind them her long slim fingers had settled along his cheek. Her skin was soft and cool against his, like silk, and the sweet burn of even that light contact made his head swim and dragged his sleep heavy mind willingly back to the world. He had apologized again then, and she had told him not to be sorry. And she meant it. He heard it in her voice. And so, though he knew there were things still to be said between them, it was clear that Beckett not only understood, but she had forgiven him too.

 _Partners._

Now they were travelling, as fast as Beckett could wend them through the tangle of cars, cabs, people and streets. And after that, Eduardo the Magnificent Doorman, would smuggle them into his building through the secret _back of_ the back entrance (which Eduardo had refused to ever reveal to him - until now. Squee!). _Them_ : he and Beckett. Because they were partners. Still. And then, up to his loft and his daughter and his mother and the glorious hospital medication that would take this excruciating ache from his broken hand and bruised ribs and the throb out of his temples, a shower, some food. Sleep. Bliss. So he rested himself as best he could in the cramped passenger seat, slumping strategically to take as much pressure off his ribs as possible whilst still finding the right spot to lay his aching head. And he was managing it. Sort of. With his knees resting against the glove compartment and his torso on a lean, he was able to brace himself against the few dips and judders of the car that Beckett couldn't avoid and distract himself searching for words to describe the brilliance that was his partner.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE CASTLE

Cold.

Too cold.

A chilled breeze slid across Rick's entire body, finding every gap in his clothing and cruelly forcing him awake. _Damn it._ He shivered. Quilt fallen off. Yes. Quilt. Quilt gone. He reached out, searching. Must. Find. Warm- Hand? What? And he opened his eyes with a jerk of his head.

"Wha- Ow!" Pain lanced across stiffened muscles and his ribs and hand immediately started throbbing. "Beckett? What's - Where are we?" He scrambled for the right connections: car, Beckett's car, going home, Beckett right here, where is here?, oh...

"Castle?" Beckett was crouched in the open door of the car, right in his line of sight, her face pinched though her voice was infused with a quiet warmth. The incongruity grabbed his attention - such as his attention was at the moment anyway, because he was still feeling fuzzy and not quite awake. And that cool breeze was bringing him out in distracting prickling shivers. He blinked at her, trying to reconcile the tight look in her face against the gentle tone of her voice and coming up blank.

"I'm ok. Must fallen asleep. Sorry." His voice rasped free from his sleep deadened throat. "What's happened? Are we there?"

"Yes, we're here." She said, her voice low enough that he was glad she had thought to sit right close to him where he could see her lips. As she spoke she reached for him, getting a hand under his arm, tugging at him.

"And what else? What's wrong? You look - uncomfortable?" He asked. She raised an eyebrow at him, not releasing his arm. "Well, I know you don't like the word 'stressed, so-"

"It's nothing. Just had an interesting little detour to lose a particularly zealous paparazzi. Seriously Castle, being this famous is not good for your health." He let her pull him from the car without pressing further. There was more to it than what she was letting on, but right now he was too tired, to flaky, and just too damn sore to do much more than concentrate on moving wherever she directed him. So he went with the pull until he was up and out and realised that they were parked deep inside a shady alleyway no more than three paces from a worn green door in the far wall. _Ah ha. The secret back of the back entrance of legend._ _I can't believe I am finally going to see it!_ And then that door was opening, stiffly, little flicks of stiff curled green tearing free in a silent shower of paint dust. Rick felt his heart rate increase as the door swung outwards:

"This is so cool." He breathed to no one, too thrilled to move. He felt Kate shift beside him, her hand still on his arm.

"Detective Beckett? Mr Castle?" A familiar man's voice, deep and clear, spoke as a familiar head emerged and swivelled in their direction. "Ah, but you look as awful as I thought you might."

"Eduardo!" Rick greeted Eduardo with a smile as he stepped from that green door. The older man was looking at him in grave concern, his face taking on a slightly blanched look as he ran his gaze over Rick's face. And Rick felt himself responding to the alarm he saw, trying to erase the tight creases around the doorman's eyes, with an automatic frivolous return serve: "Tis nothing but a scratch."

"Your mother has told me everything." Eduardo looked at him, scanned him feet to scalp, his face in sceptical lines. Castle grinned at him, eyebrows rising.

"Mother exaggerates."

" If you could smile with your entire face, rather than just the one side, I might believe you. Now, please come this way before those leeches find out where you are and we lose this private entry forever." He turned back to the door way with a sweeping gesture that they should follow. "Those excuses for human beings have been plaguing my door for an hour already. Blocking my residents. Stopping the couriers. Trying to look like _my_ couriers to sneak inside. Trying trick me into _gossiping_ about one of my residents! Pah!"

"They'd never get past you my friend." Rick stepped forward, eager to get a look inside the door, but was brought up short by Beckett's hand on his bicep. He turned towards her as Eduardo hurried back to the green door.

"He doesn't seem surprised about - He knows?" She asked, brows arched like arrows at him. "About the-" And she gestured to her own ears.

"Hearing? Yes." Rick said.

"Oh." She said blandly, watching the older man as he pulled open the door and looked back at them expectantly. Castle searched her face, months of study letting him easily reading what he saw there, and, oh-

"Eduardo. He. Well. I mean, he's like family." He said, feeling the words just tumbling out of him. "Not that you and the 12th aren't like family. To me. It's just that he's been around longer. Like an Uncle. An old old Uncle who- answers our door. A lot. I'm making a mess of this aren't I?"

"Mmhmm. But, OK, makes sense."

"Really? Because its nothing. Really."

"OK."

"Because I had to tell him after we moved in and I lost a very very expensive pair of state of the art hearing aids somewhere in the lobby after a very _very_ interesting, very very _hot_ evening with a an former gymnast -"

"Castle! _Nothing_ really starting to becoming _something_ now."

"Right."

And through the green door of legend.

Which turned out to be a total let down as they walking into a simple grey corridor, not even a very long one, that terminated in a plain grey door, that in turn lead straight into another short bland corridor and to another door that opened into the lobby of his building. And straight into the line of fire of a dozen cameras and that calling crowd that were only blocked from entering by a wall of glass and metal and a coded entry pad. The three of them hustled across the tiled floor with Eduardo positioning himself between Rick and Beckett and the unwanted attention. Given that Rick was more than head and shoulders over the top of the older man it didn't block the view the paparazzi got as they hurried through the exposed space of the lobby, but the nobility of the gesture was humbling. This was _his_ building, _his_ people, and he would defend them in any way he could, even if they had brought it on themselves. Even if it meant all the man could do was stand between his people and the world outside. And he was going to be called upon to do just that over and over in the coming weeks. He would do it too because Eduardo was a one in a million guy. Rick felt a new well of guilt rise up inside him.

Then they were at the elevator doors and his doorman was pressing the button. The light flashed slowly indicating a decent to the ground floor. He watched it pulse. Too slow. Come on. _Come on!_ And all the while behind him camera's flashed and he caught snatches of voices calling, for him no doubt, but he did not turn around. Instead he hunched his shoulders, trying to hide himself without being too obvious about it and inviting yet more images to hit the web of him cowering behind an old man and a police officer. Shit. Beckett suddenly squeezed her fingers around his arm where, he now realised, she had never relinquished her hold. The press of her fingers through the cloth went a little way to soothing his nerves, but behind him the damn media mob was still in his peripheral vision along with the flares and sparks of their cameras. And though there was at least 20 feet between them and those cameras, and a wall of glass as well, it still felt as oppressive and intrusive as if they were right at his back.

Where was the damn elevator?

And suddenly there was second hand on his arm, sliding around his forearm, and the length of Beckett's body pressing into his side. It was a quiet, subtle movement. Something that, on this angle, the cameras and roving gossip hungry eyes would not be able to see. It was just for them. For him. He pushed back, just enough to let her know how much he appreciated her presence, and felt an answering squeeze of her fingers. He didn't need to to see her face to understand the message. _Partners. Still._ And the tension that had been squeezing at his back, his neck, relaxed its hold as the elevator finally arrived with a ding and the doors lurched open. Eduardo hung back, his hand holding the doors at bay for them to enter.

"Eduardo, did Alexis and my mother make it inside before the press got here?" He asked, as he entered and turned back around.

"There were a few already here Mr Castle, but your ladies are formidable women." The doorman responded with a smile that was infused with admiration and aimed right at him, intending perhaps to reassure. But that wasn't really the answer Rick had been hoping for and he couldn't return it. Instead, visions of leering men and women, and the sword thrust of a camera in his daughter's face, jostling his mother, balled up in his chest and throat. He had to get up to them. _Now._

"I'll speak with the 12th about a security detail Eduardo." Beckett spoke up from beside him. "See what we can do about clearing the front of the building. Does the body corporate for these premises have a private security arrangement at all?"

"They do. I have notified our people." Eduardo nodded, "But the presence of some of our city's finest would be faster and would be appreciated, Detective. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Happy to help." Beckett said, releasing one hand from Rick's arm and fishing her cell phone out of her pocket to thumb up the contact details that would link her straight to Esposito. Eduardo nodded again, a smile on his face. Nothing would make him happier than having his building back under his control again. Then the older man stepped back and the doors slid closed. And Rick let out a long exhalation as Beckett spoke to the Precinct.

"They will be here within the half hour." Beckett suddenly said and Rick realised he had been death staring the slow, slow, too slow flashing arrow that told him they were moving at a far too leisurely pace up to the loft. He looked down at her as she tucked the cell back into her pocket.

"Thank you." He said. _For everything._ He watched Beckett catch his subtext, without looking at him, and duck her head like she did when unexpected words of gratitude slid past her schooled defences. And on everyone of those occasions, he was reminded that Detective Kate Beckett did not do appreciation well. But he left the words hanging between them, left them there to settle and sink right in because she needed to hear them. And he needed to say them. And it was nice to know that sometimes, just sometimes, he had some control over himself around her, enough to know when it was the right time to shut up.

"Like I said." She said after a moment, and he could hear the smile. "Happy to help."

The elevator stopped.

He was home.

CastleCastleCastleCastle

"Dad!"

"Richard!"

Alexis and his mother bailed him up just inside the door to the loft (which smelled heavenly with a perfume of chicken noodle soup) and he was happily grabbed around the waist for a hug by one, and had his head pulled forwards for a motherly perfumed kiss by the other. His entire body protested at being squeezed and tugged, but he held his lips closed over the stabs of pain through sheer force will, and let the two of them pull him deeper into the loft. Let them smother him for a long appreciative moment. Then his mother stepped back to look him over. Uh oh.

"Dad!" Alexis spoke up from around his midriff, her voice blurry but still decipherable. "I'm still mad at you for sneaking off from the hospital, but I am so glad you're home."

"Me too pumpkin." He said honestly, kissing the top of her head, his arm snaking around her to pull her tighter against him. "And I'm sorry about the sneaking. Won't happen again."

"Better not." Alexis retorted without any heat in her words. She didn't let go.

Rick looked over her heard at his mother as she continued to critically, and unsubtly, evaluate the state of him. He decided to get in first. "Are you all right? Eduardo told me the press were waiting for you in front of the building when you got home."

"Oh, please." His mother waved away his worry with a swat of her hand. "I've had more enthusiastic autograph hunters waiting for me outside my dressing room for my last off off off Broadway production. And Alexis handled them like a true chip off the not-so-old block."

Rick pursed his lips, not entirely convinced. And not happy at what his daughter had had to face.

"Really Dad." He looked down to see his daughter looking up at him with those big beautiful eyes that got him every time. "It was fine. We're ok."

"But you on the other hand," his mother went on. "You look ready to drop. Alexis has been cooking up a storm in the kitchen and it smells heavenly, but she won't let me taste a drop. It's all for you Richard and you look like you need it. Then, oh dear," she wrinkled her nose " a shower is definitely on the cards. And then straight to bed with you. Doctor's orders. And better than that: mother's orders."

"And daughter's orders."

"Yes mother. Yes daughter of mine." He said with a quick grin. He knew when to obey. And when he could get away with openly enjoying a bit of TLC.

"And we got the meds from the hospital Dad." Alexis went on, finally pulling back from her monster hug and sliding around and under one of his arms. She tucked herself there like she meant to stay. Her arm was a warm pressure against his back. "The doctor said you needed to have them with something to eat. So I made chicken noodle soup."

"With extra noodles?"

"With extra extra noodles. There are so many noodles its sort of not a soup anymore. More like _Chicken noodles with suggestion of soup_."

"My favourite kind!" His grin broadened until his face ached, and he gave Alexis a grateful squeeze of his arm. It was good to be home.

"Ah yes." His mother nodded. "The medication. It's in my purse. Oh Katherine!" His mother had evidently spotted Beckett. She stopped, then disappeared behind him. "Oh my dear, thank you so much for delivering my wayward son back home."

Rick turned around in time to catch sight of his mother throwing her arms around Beckett, and seeing Beckett do her head ducking again, a soft flush colouring her cheeks. _Adorable._

"It was no bother Martha. I had some time."

"Nonsense! I am sure that the press didn't make things very easy for you." Martha drew back from the hug. "I know what they can be like once a story like this breaks. It can be like wading through a pack of hungry dogs." Rick winced as he watched Beckett squirm under the full beam of his mother's affection and appreciation. Though his mother didn't see it, it was there in the subtleties of expression that Rick had had months to study. And he had cracked some of the Enigma Code that was Detective Beckett, at least enough to know that it was time to step in.

"Detective Beckett is a pro mother." He interjected. "She can handle herself around the press."

"Richard! A little gratitude."

"No, he's right, it was fine." Beckett said, taking the opportunity thrown to her to gather herself and gracefully deflect the conversation to the side. She flashed him a look threaded through with relief and a thank you. "We deal with the press, with crowds, all the time. I've seen it much worse."

"Well," his mother spoke, accepting it for what it was. "We are grateful anyway. Thank you."

"Thank you!" Alexis chirped from his side.

"You're both welcome." Beckett said, to both his mother and daughter. A small, but genuine and warm smile touched her lips. "And Eduardo was magnificent. I had no idea there was a third entrance into this building."

"Ah Eduardo!" Martha nodded. "He is amazing, isn't he. There is nothing he doesn't know about this building. Nothing he wouldn't do for the people who live in it. I will have to have a word with him again tonight."

"Will you stay for some soup Detective?" Alexis asked.

"Yes! Soup!" His mother seized upon Alexis' kind offer. "It's the least we can do before you head out into the fray once more."

"Ah, thank you, Alexis, Martha. I would love to, but I have to be back at the precinct in about 20 minutes."

"Carmichael?" Rick asked.

"He's lawyered up." She nodded. "Some big shot defence attorney that costs more than my annual salary. Looks like you were right Castle."

"Glad to be able to help out." He held her gaze, smiled into it and felt the warmth coming back his way. They were going to be ok. It was going to be ok -

"Well, then you have to take some soup with you!" His mother had a one track mind!

And Operation Feed Beckett went into full swing and neither he nor the intended target were going to get a say in how his mother expressed her gratitude anymore. Not for another second. It was going to be soup. And soup it was. Within a minute Beckett was at their front door cradling a large red thermos of Alexis' noodles _with soup_ creation, making her goodbyes, and he was being dragged to the dining table by his daughter. He had time to raise a hand to his ear, thumb and little finger extended: _call me!_ to Beckett (much to her amusement) before Operation _Now Feed Richard_ , took over and he succumbed to delicious homemade soup and the attentions of his two favourite redheads.

A short time later, muzzy and floaty with pain meds and lying in his bed under the watchful eye of Linus, he thumbed his cell to life and found Beckett's details.

 _R: How's case going? That lawyer worth the money?_

 _B: Stop asking about case. Why aren't you asleep?_

 _R: Will be soon. Drugs good._ _Wanted to know about case? About you?_ _You k?_

 _B: Everything is fine. I will talk to you through it tomorrow._ _Go to sleep._

 _R: Promise? ? ? fg_

 _B: Yes._

 _R: Siure? Sory Speeling no good. gpod drugs._

 _B: I can tell. Sleep._ _You._ _Now._

 _R: yo[re pushy parner. &^fj f_

 _B: Yep. I have to go._ _In for round two._ _Thank your mother and Alexis for the soup tomorrow._

 _R: Tom r?_ _do now_

 _B: No. Go to sleep._ _Soup compliments can wait._

 _R:_

 _B: Castle?_

 _R:_

 _B: Night Castle._

End

More to come of course. Its not over yet! Hope you like it and I appreciate all comments and feedback.


	12. Chapter 12

Hello everyone. Yes, the next chapter is here! Its been a bit of a struggle to get this chapter done with real life requiring urgent attention, and the chapter itself requiring quite a bit of wrestling. I hope its worth the wait. And thank you for all those people that are still with me for the ride. I hope you will read and let me know your thoughts.

A question for readers too: I think this story might benefit from a beta, but I am not totally across the dynamics of finding one. Can anyone help? Is there a place to look?

V

V

V

Kate Beckett sat at her desk across from the suited stranger occupying Castle's chair and tried not to let her gaze slip into a glare of frustration. It wasn't even 48 hours (has it really been that short a time since everything was turned on its head? Has it really been that _long_?) since Castle had been in that same chair; sitting there with her so late at night it was probably morning, throwing around theories about Baxter and the missing murder weapon with his eyes as blood shot as hers felt. It was less than two days since he brought them dinner right at her desk so that they could keep attacking the frustrating wall they were striking against. And god, it _had_ been frustrating. Baxter was going to get away with murder and they had nothing sufficient to tie it to him without the murder weapon. They needed that gun. Then Castle had abruptly disappeared and reappeared a few minutes later with two cartons of something that smelled so divine that her stomach growled the moment she detected it (much to Castle's amusement). How long had it been since she had eaten? She realised she had no idea.

 _"Nu-ren nan-ren ju-chan."_ _Castle had pronounced (or at least that was what it sounded like) as he whirled the containers onto her desk and slid back onto his chair._ _It still threw her that he spoke Chinese._ _And that he was so casually, unpretentiously accomplished at it._ _It must have taken him years to cultivate both the grammar and the accent, and that sort of serious dedication just jarred with the flighty overly privileged shallow celebrity that threw her cheesy pick up lines at every opportunity._ _But then that wasn't really new._ _Like his unexpectedly keen investigative mind, it was yet another clue that there was more to Rick Castle than would be suggested from his playboy front._ _She shouldn't be intrigued by that mystery, but she was._ _Though she wasn't about to let him know he had peaked her interest._ _There wasn't enough Kevlar in the building to protect her from what that knowledge would do to his ego._

 _"Castle, what are you doing?"_ _She had snapped._ _They had so far to go with this case in such a small window of time that any interruption was just pushing her buttons._

 _"Having dinner."_

 _"It's,"_ _she checked her watch._ _"1am!"_

 _"A fact that I am painfully aware of Detective._ _Now this,"_ _he tapped the cartons, ignoring her impatience, "is the real deal._ _It's from that new place a few blocks down._ _The menu is one hundred percent nouveau Shanghai._ _The chef just got off the proverbial boat last month._ _So it's the real thing._ _I've been wanting to try it out all since they opened._ _Everyone is raving about what they can do with chillies and hot peppers._ _Here!"_ _He handed her a pair of wooden chop sticks, and then parted his own with a snap and rubbed them together, smoothing down imaginary splinters._ _She looked down at her own chopsticks and frowned._ _These were no cheap mass produced bamboo or plastic_ _implements._ _She wasn't sure exactly what they were made of, but they were sleek and dark and smooth and unquestionably expensive._

 _"Wait, isn't that the new_ 5-star restaurant _with the entrées that cost more than that shirt you're wearing?"_

 _"Yeah!"_ _He said with no small measure of glee._ _A grin appeared that just about split his face open._ _"Isn't it great!"_

 _"They don't' do take out."_

 _He just grinned wider, waggled his eyebrows, and dug out a generous portion of noodles and meat._ _Oh my god, he was incorrigible._ _How could he already_ have a guy _at a place that had just opened?_ _And this was expensive._ _Really expensive._ _She couldn't accept this._ _She shouldn't accept this._ _But then her stomach growled again._

 _"You're stalling."_ _Castle suddenly spoke._

 _"What?"_ _She looked up and saw that Castle had stopped grinning and was looking at her over the mountain of noodles pinched between his very expensive chopsticks._ _His eyes were narrowed, regarding her with some critical measure._

 _" It's the chillies isn't it?_ _It's ok, some people can't handle the real thing._ _I should have asked for the_ _wàiguórén menu."_

 _"Oh this_ foreigner _," she watched his eyes widen with appreciation at her understanding, "can handle chillies Castle._ _But I notice_ you _aren't eating either."_

 _"Its impolite to start before everyone else, Beckett."_

 _"Really."_ _She retorted, and opened her carton._ _Oh my god._ _The aroma was nothing short of heavenly._ _The vegetables tossed in with the pork and noodles were actually recognisable, not those translucent congealed mystery ingredients she was used to from her usual take out spots._ _And wow, he hadn't been lying about the chillies._ _But no, no, it was undeniably expensive, and she shouldn't even be considering taking this from him._ _He had to know she couldn't replay like for like._ _A fragrant waft of incredible spices drifted up from the open contained._ _Her mouth watered._ _Still, she didn't think he was the type who would use a meal to try to barter for something else._ _She didn't know him that well, but her instinct was that he didn't buy women dinners as a down payment._ _So -_

 _"All right Castle, you're on."_

 _"You won't do it."_

 _"Oh,_ I'll _do it._ _It's you I'm worried about."_

 _"Oh, don't worry about me Detective, I'll front up."_

 _"Prove it."_

 _"Together."_

 _"On three."_

 _"THREE!"_

 _They ate._ _He shoved the first mouthful in and choked it down, face turning beet red._ _She followed suit._ Oh god, that's hot. _She felt sweat prickle her skin._ _But then, impossibly, he went for another mouthful._ _So she had to._ _And somewhere through the incredibly delicious yet agonizing noodle feast Castle produced two massive chocolate shakes to cool the burn._ _It wasn't until she was draining the last of dregs of delicious chocolate cream, and feeling a new buzz of energy spreading through her body, that she realised she had been duped into turning her back on her murder board for the last fifteen minutes._ _Damn._

 _"That was sneaky, Castle."_

 _"I think the word you are looking for is 'smooth' Detective._ _And yes it was."_ _He smirked._ _"And you're welcome."_

 _They worked for another hour and came up with nothing, but when they finally clocked out of the building she rode the streets home with a smile._

And now someone else was in Castle's chair, and it felt like a violation. Which was ridiculous: it was just a chair. Still, she couldn't help noticing that the man sitting there now did not fill out the space properly. He was too dour, too still, too neatly framed within the chair's fixed dimensions. He didn't lean back until the metal work squealed, or sprawl beyond the arm rests. He didn't fiddle with the things on her desk. He didn't stray from the company line. Instead, he just sat there, slim and neat, his file folder open in his lap, pen tapping the page as he worked through the bold typeface of demands printed on the page clipped inside. She gripped down on her pen and felt the plastic creak.

"-need to show me where the relevant policy is located on the station intranet-"

Captain Montgomery had warned her that they were going to be audited, and it wasn't like it was a new experience. Auditing of all their practices and procedures was a regular occurrence and she appreciated the reasons for it, even if they were about as comfortable as a trip to the dentist. But this one? Maybe it was the fact that they had just stumbled across something huge and tangled with Carmichael and Baxter that she was desperate to get back to? Maybe it was that since returning Castle to his apartment yesterday she had had no time to decompress, to stop and breathe, for fear of losing momentum and giving their suspects too much time to regroup and reform their lines? Maybe it was because her best efforts with Castle's coffee machine in the break room had merely produced a cup of acid? Maybe it was the pestering paparazzi phone calls that kept on making it through the switch, looking for information on Castle and the incident that had revealed his hearing loss? Or maybe, it was the intrusive political stench to this particular audit? The fact that she had an ongoing investigation needing her swift attention and yet here she was being audited for something that could wait until Castle was closer to returning to the 12th was just-

Or maybe it was just how this stranger was sitting in Castle's chair.

"-And then, the procedure for -"

 _Oh my god._

"You know what?" She interrupted the man's droning shopping list of demands, rising to her feet. "Why don't we take a break for a moment? I need coffee. And I am sure you could do with-"

"You have a coffee." The man pointed at her cup and looked at her blandly. "And no, I don't. We should continue. There is a great deal to get through to day and I have a meeting at 5pm with the Mayor for my preliminary audit report."

"Five minutes." She told the man and pointedly ignored his terse sigh as she headed for the break room with her cup of battery acid.

The break room was mercifully empty and Kate walked to the sink to dispose of the tepid coffee. As she watched the dark liquid snake down the drain, she took a moment to try to regroup. There was no getting out of this audit, but she was going to have to do something to keep the Carmichael investigation moving forwards or risk having the man slip away from them. And he was capable of doing just that, despite an official direction that he keep himself available and within the city limits. He was a connected man. That much was clear. And the ludicrously expensive lawyer he had brought into Interview was worth every penny he was paying her and then some. She had managed to get him out in record time, and had left no leverage to compel him to stay closer than the city limits.

So they needed to make their own connections. They needed to do it fast. Ryan and Espo were working Baxter over, but it wasn't enough. She bit down on her lip. She barely heard from Castle since his sleepy, garbled texts the day before, and he likely still had his hands full handling the fallout from yesterday's shocking revelations but she did tell him she would take him through the case, and he did have to file his own report on the raid, so- She looked out at the auditor, sitting there in Castle's chair, flipping through his manila folder. Her eyes narrowed. She pulled out her cell.

"- Hello?" It was Alexis who answered after a handful of rings, sounding hesitant and very very young. Kate frowned.

"Alexis. It's Kate."

"Oh!" There was relief in the young girl's voice. "Detective Beckett - I mean, Kate. Hello."

"Is everything ok?"

"Um, yeah." She said after a beat. And when she spoke again she sounded distracted. "It's um, it's ok. Well, as ok as it can be. You know. "

"I do. It will get better. The press will lose interest in time." Kate tried to reassure the teen, but she could plainly here that something was going on over at the loft. Whatever it was though, Alexis didn't seem to want to address it directly. Which was enough of a sign for Kate to persist, but gently: "How are _you_ holding up?"

"Fine. I'm fine. I'm taking a few days off school. Studying at home. Dad thought it would be a good idea -" She stopped speaking again, and this time Beckett thought she could hear something in the background. Raised voices maybe?

"Alexis? Are you sure everything is ok?"

"Um-" Ok, something was definitely going on. Yes, that was unquestionably voices in the background. And raised voices. She didn't need to be a cop to recognize the faint sounds of a domestic.

"Can I talk to your Dad please?"

"Um.."

"Alexis, what's going on? Is your grandmother there?"

"No, she's out right now. She had a doctor's appointment and Dad insisted she keep it. Eduardo let her out the back way." There was a pause on the line, a rustling that sounded like the phone was being pressed against cloth as someone walked. When Alexis spoke again it was in a half whisper. "It's been pretty rough. Have you seen the press?"

"No, I haven't." Kate said and realised, for the first time, just how intensely she had been focussing on the Carmichael Baxter case and the internal demands of paperwork and the audit that was the legacy of yesterday's raid. Somehow she had managed to entirely miss the entire media fall out without even consciously trying to.

"Dad's so tired. He's been doing damage control all day and he won't let me help. And now Gina's here. She wants him to do a family piece for _Entertainment!_ , with Grams and I. She has the network lined up, the whole deal. And Dad- He's really- They're _arguing_." And the way the teen whispered the word was like it was a foreign language, something so alien and unfathomable that she didn't know what to do with it. It wasn't hard to imagine that angry raised voices were not a common occurrence within the Castle home. If he was even half the negotiator, the people pleaser, the considered conciliator, at home that he was at the Precinct then she could well understand how the young girl was finding her father fighting with someone so destabilising and shocking. Kate was finding it hard to get her own mind around the image of Castle pushed so far from himself that he was actually in a verbal fight. But at least Alexis had told her and she had that to work with.

"Where are they now?"

"They're in the Dad's office. He shut the door, but I can still hear them." Her voice was sounding steadier, as if confiding in another adult was suddenly going to make things better. If only life was that simple, Kate thought.

"When is your grandmother due back?"

"In about an hour I think."

"Can you call her?"

"I tried but she isn't picking up."

"OK." There were so many cell phone dead spots around the city, it wasn't too unusual to have trouble connecting, and in a doctor's office she may very well have had to turn her cell off. "How about your take your books upstairs until then. And take the phone too. Do you have a pen? I'll give you my direct line."

"Thank you Kate." Alexis breathed down the line and took down the number.

"Don't worry too much ok." Kate went on, searching for words that didn't sound like platitudes. It was hard to do when she was talking to a teenager as switched on as Alexis was. "Your Dad and Gina are just working through how to deal with this situation, and at times they are going to clash about the best way to handle it. Adults do that sometimes. Now, your grandmother will be back in no time, but until then if you are worried you call me ok?"

"I guess. It's just, this isn't _Dad_. He doesn't- Even when he and Gina were breaking up they didn't fight. Not like this. And- he's - he's really _mad_. Can- can you come over?" Kate heard her take a deep breath and took a moment to swallow down her own reaction. She couldn't imagine Castle _that_ angry. There was no way she could let this lie.

" I have something I have to tie up here, but - give me thirty minutes?"

"Thank you."

"Now, take your books and go upstairs for me 'k."

"OK."

Alexis hung up and Kate took a breath, before marching back out into the bullpen to deliver the bad news to the interloper still sitting in Castle's chair: his report to the mayor was going to be late.

End of chapter

Yes, this story is totally going somewhere. I think two or three more chapters will take it home. Thank you again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, its been a hellava thing to write this time. Please R&R. Yes, that's begging. Flagrant and unapologetic begging. :)


	13. Chapter 13

Author's notes:

 _Thank you to the ever gracious and supportive_ ebfiddler _, my wonderful beta! Without your help this chapter would not be anywhere_ near _what it should be (note: any remaining errors or issues are mine)._ Thank you!ebfiddler _is also an awesome writer (wow, I just can't believe she has offered to look over this fic for me. So humbled.) and has terrific work posted here on ._ _Please look her up, read and love as I have done._

 _Secondly, I am SO sorry for this taking so long to be posted (family illness and writer's block to blame). I hope to post the next chapter before Christmas, but will have to see how that goes._

 _Then: I have taken some liberties creating fictional figures in the entertainment world (André , Natasha and Sarah Ma) and also a fictional entertainment program called: Entertainment! - all of which do not exist in the real world._ _I have looked online and not found any such people or program._ _If anyone knows better, please PM me or leave a comment in the reviews and I will correct it here._

 _And in one last note: I have needed to change a small thing in the previous chapter._ _The chapter doesn't have to be reread to read this one._ _The small change is that rather than not hearing at all from Castle that day, Beckett says that she has had very brief contact with him._

 **In the last chapter, chapter 12, Beckett receives a phone call from Alexis and ends with her leaving the precinct to head to the loft. This chapter begins the morning of the same day and sheds some light on why Alexis has asked Beckett for help.**

Chapter 13

Earlier that morning...

Rick woke with a start, a sharp indrawn breath and the hazy sensation that he had just bolted out of a really unpleasant dream. One that had evaporated the instant he had woken, leaving only the tugging sensation of something lost. Though by the feel of his heart rabbiting against his ribs, his hard grip on the pillow punched into a lump under his head, and the strong desire still burning through his limbs that he should be running, running, it seemed his mind was the only thing that didn't remember. He took a moment to breathe out the tension and was disconcerted to feel the exhalation rush through him in a weakened tremor.

 _Fuck._

He hadn't had felt the echo of a dream like that in years-

 _-but, it was just a dream. A dream._

And it would pass.

It would. It always did.

He forced his hand to unclench from the pillow and rub the last clinging remnants of the lost dream from his face, felt sweat on his skin, and yelped as muscle and bone were forced to shift; as his knuckles pressed carelessly into bruises. _Oh my god! Ow!_ Pain in his face, ribs, both hands, and his head, oh god his head. It welled and roiled inside him as suddenly adrenalin kicked in. What the hell had he done to himself? He rolled onto his back and looked at the hand that had touched his face and took in the bruises, swollen knuckles, and the stiffness in his fingers. The other hand was strapped up, but he could see bruises peeking out from under the molded support and bandages. He stared, holding his hands out in front of him. _What the hell-?_ And there was more! He looked down, lifted the bed sheet, and saw the same heavy stain of bruising down his ribs. And along with it a sharp cramping pain with every inhalation. _What-?_ There was a blurry memory there of struggling with a t-shirt, before giving up and gingerly crawling shirtless into the bed. Feeling drugged -

 _Oh._

He looked towards the bedside table. There, like little signal fires by his cell phone, stood two orange bottles with prescriptions labels, along with half a glass of water and his hearing aids. The pained fog thinned away and he remembered. Everything. With a groan, he remembered. Oh no. No. No wonder he was dreaming about running away.

And something pressed on his knee.

"What? Ale-" He started, yanking up the bed sheets and trying to push himself upright instinct driving him to cover what injuries he could from his daughter's sight, but - he blinked, head aching - Alexis had her left index finger pressed to her lips and her right hand raised in a fist, fingers and thumb facing him. He felt so dull it took him a long second to realize what she was doing. Wait a moment. He looked again, reading: _quiet, don't move!_ He nodded at her and tried to force stiff fingers into a thumbs up: _understood._ Alexis pointed at the door then lowered her eyebrows, mock glowered at him and tapped her wrist watch: _Gina out there, in the loft._

He glanced at the door, suddenly feeling the intrusion of his ex-wife and the weight of the world she was bringing with her right through the solid wood. Rick gave Alexis a questioning look: _really?_ Just wishing he had read her wrongly, really. Knowing he hadn't.

Alexis nodded, eyebrows raised: _really._ And Rick scowled, thinking on some choice language he couldn't vent without alerting Gina that he was awake and therefore _available._ His daughter grinned a small grin at him, then pressed a hand over her ear looking comically alarmed: _language!_ And his glare, and his souring mood, dissolved into something softer. That sign was one of Alexis' first creations and it never failed to make him smile. Guiltily. Maybe a bit gleefully too. If he was honest.

Oh, but it was so long now since they had used this silent code! It had started out as a game when Alexis had turned three and discovered that whispering behind her hand was a very useful way of circumventing and annoying her father. Not that it had been all that easy finding and hanging onto that adorable little girl voice at the best of times, even when she was facing him, but once she started that hidden hushed talking it was completely impossible. And she knew it. That fiery little girl, so determined to get what she wanted, had shrewdly ascertained her father's weak spot and had seized on it with both hands. He was so proud of her for being so clever. But then, after a week, it was less awesome than it was irritating and so he had hit on the idea of their own private silent language. Something to engage her quick mind and something that stopped the torment of whispering that was driving him around the bend.

In their hands it had grown like a living thing, an unspoken but never silent chimera drawn from every part of their lives: from old army handbooks, historical texts from the public library (who didn't love ancient ninja hand signs?), Alexis' nursery rhymes, the Discovery Channel, Star Trek, Chinese number signs, from watching the birds and animals in the park, actual sign language, and of course, what they created themselves. Like Gina's call sign: all impatience and deadlines captured in a frown and a tap of an invisible wristwatch. That had been one of his. And if she ever found out he was a dead man.

It was wonderful though. It was fun. It was like playing spies. And it was more than a bit silly most of the time. But it was theirs. _Theirs_.

How long was it since they had talked to each other this way now? Not since Alexis started high school maybe? When he had discovered, painfully and too slowly, that hanging out with Dad and doing secret hand signs was just not cool. Oh wow. Where did that time go? He took a moment to take in the sight of his growing daughter now as she sat by his knee. A teenager. A beautiful strong young woman. He could see her mother in her, her hair of course, but sometimes it was there in a less tangible ways: a look, a movement, a passing attitude. And there was his own mother too: the shape of her jaw, the laugh in her eyes. And him. His eyes, the same shade, though she had a much wiser pair than he. And there were others there too. Where did she get that serious intellect, that driving need to discover and conquer every challenge that came her way? Was it a legacy from his father? It certainly didn't have its roots in his mother's or Meredith's flighty family lines. But if his mother knew, she had never spoken of it-

His reverie was cut short by Alexis' grip on his knee again. She tapped her forehead with her thumb, her fingers fanned, her eyes sharpened with concern: _Daddy?_

 _I'm ok._ He smiled again, stiff fingers curling into the right shape. She frowned at him, clearly not convinced. Diversion needed. _Coffee?_ He signed awkwardly (it was hard to twist his hands together when one was strapped up tight) suddenly realizing he could smell a delicious aroma coming from somewhere nearby. Alexis nodded, smiled excitedly, and produced a tray of hot steaming pancakes with whipped cream (so _much_ whipped cream! God, his arteries were clogging just looking at it) and a foaming latte on the side. She plunked it onto his lap as he pulled himself further into a sitting position. Oh! The smell was divine and he felt his headache ease just with the aroma. He kissed his fingertips and flicked his fingers outwards: _Bellissimo!_ Then touched his fingers to his chin and pulled them away with a grateful smile: _thank you._

"Thank you." He chanced a whisper. His wonderful clever kind daughter who had somehow managed to make him this wondrous breakfast and sneak it into his bedroom without alerting Gina! His wonderful worried girl, looking at him now with such a bright smile that almost, but not quite, covered the furtive pensive flick of her gaze in the area of the bruises on his face, the splint on his hand. "Breakfast of the gods!" He whispered, this time grabbing hold of her gaze as it brushed by his on its way to another circuit his face and hands (he was so glad he had thought to pull the bed sheet up). He reached over the tray and grasped her hands where they lay twisting tightly in her lap. It threw him for a moment how easily his one hand engulfed both of hers; how slender and delicate her fingers were under his. She might be growing up, but it was poignant moments like these that kept her so young in his heart. A new surge of protectiveness rose in his chest. "It's fine, Pumpkin. It's fine. _I'm_ fine. Everything is going to be ok." She shook her head, doubt all over her face, and waved a curved hand downwards through the air, painting over the painful contour of his face, and then her two hands hovered for a moment over his hands: _bruises_. Yeah, that wasn't helping his case any. He watched her touch her ears and grab onto an imaginary megaphone and he got the message: his secret was out, their secret was out. And yeah, that wasn't helping him either. He sighed and set the tray aside with a small grunt of pain. "Come here." He put out his arms and pulled her into his embrace.

"It will be ok Alexis," he said into her hair. "It will." And it would be. He would make sure it was. He would protect her. He would protect them. They would get through this. Then she said something against his chest, undoubtedly knowing he wouldn't hear it, and he took his moment. "Yes, yes you're right young padawan: you _should_ listen to your father, he is after all wise and all knowing, and always right." A small puff of air against his skin let him know he had managed to make her laugh. Then she was pushing against him and sitting up. They regarded one another for a long moment and he could see her weighing things in that sharp mind. Then she stuck out her hand, pinky raised: _promise?_ He grabbed it with his own little finger, hooking her in tight: _promise_.

CastleCastleCastleCastle

Rick and Alexis carried on their hushed, partly signed, partly whispered conversation as he worked through his pancakes and latte with a pain pill chaser. And as his daughter revealed the nature of Gina's early morning incursion and what she had brought with her, the ache in his head sliced deeper and became harder to ignore. Gina was effective in her role, but there was a line between effective and fanatical - or at least there ought to be. In any sane world. But, well, to quote a better writer than he was: there's the rub!

His and Alexis' signing wasn't really up for an involved adult conversation ( _note: correct this deficit_ ), but with some additional lip reading and knowing the just how his ex-wife thought he now had a pretty clear picture of himself in his bed sleeping away the morning while his mother and daughter held the line against Gina in full flight. He did his best not to let the growing ire show on his face. Alexis had enough to deal with on any regular day between his mother and him, and growing up in the sometimes intrusive chaos of their public lives. But he had always, always, worked hard to keep his daughter out of the prying eye of the press and the pressure that it could sometimes bring to bear. It hadn't been that hard to do really. It wasn't like he was an actor or some sort of reality show or sports star, the likes of which filled the gossip rags and tabloid headlines on a daily basis. He was an author, and for most of his fans, it was about his writing first and last and all through the middle, which helped to keep the press at bay. Mostly. Except when _he_ wanted more. Mostly. But now-? Now he had messed up so badly that everything but certainly about to change. In all the worst ways. And Gina was bringing that consequence into his house like she was on fire.

He didn't know who to be more angry with right now: himself or his ex-wife.

He tried not to squint too obviously against the pain in his temples.

Then Alexis suddenly signed: _shush, don't move_ , for the second time that morning and looked at the door. He followed her gaze expectantly before remembering that that was not going to help. Instead he watched his daughter's face as she listened to something beyond his bedroom. _Uh oh._ She patted his knee and suddenly smiled with all her teeth, fanning her hands either side of her face as if she was some vaudeville starlet: _Grams_ , and a grimace and fingers tapping her imaginary watch: _Gina_ ; she pointed repeatedly at the door: _incoming_!

Shit!

He heard the muffled thump of a hand on his door. Then again. Then a voice. And his door was opening.

"Rick?" Gina said as stepped into the room as she called out for him. She took in the entire space, from Linus to his bed to the bookshelves, in one efficient sweep, and if she was perturbed to find Alexis there and him with an empty breakfast plate, she didn't show it. "Ah. Awake at last I see. And with breakfast out of the way! Good. Good. That will get things back on track." Behind her, looking exasperated and apologetic, his mother threw up her hands to let him know she had lost the battle with the unstoppable force that was his ex-wife. Rick nodded at her, a thank you and an acceptance of the pass to him all in one motion, then gave his attention to the problem that had just interrupted his breakfast. Gina had her ever ready tablet in her hand and consulted it as she spoke. "Rick, you have your first interview with André and his midday crew in an hour. Then Natasha at two this afternoon." As Gina continued her spiel, Rick felt a movement at his side and glanced at Alexis, noting the fire starting in her eyes and the grim set of her lips as she watched her former step mother reading from her tablet. He gripped her arm and shook his head, _don't_ , raised and wafted his left hand like a stage hypnotist, _remember_ , and crooked his pinkie finger, _the promise_. _It will be ok_ , he let his eyes do the talking and Alexis reluctantly looked away from Gina.

"Gina." Rick's interruption pulled his publicist's gaze from her screen and she blinked expectantly at him. "This is a conversation for the office. Give me 10 minutes. I need a shower."

"We can talk while you do that."

"Gina-"

"What? Oh, _Rick._ We _were_ married remember?"

" _Were_ being the operative word."

"I promise not to look then, how's that?" He gave her a sour look and she lowered the tablet. "Look, while you have been lying in and Martha and Alexis have been doing a terrific job keeping me from doing mine, the tabloid rags and the rest have been running with this story unchecked." She sighed, looking put upon. And impatient.

" ... _something!_ " That was Alexis. He was too slow to see what she was talking about.

"Yes, _the story_ ," Gina retorted, but without anger or reproach in her voice. "Alexis, right now that is what it is. And it's hot. And it's not ours."

"Gina. 10 minutes," Rick interjected again. More firmly this time. No messing around.

"Fine. But we'll have to talk on the way to the studio. Have you thought about what you are going to say today? To any of the press?" She paused, waiting for him. Clearly she assumed that he hadn't. And she was mostly correct. He watched her face crease into that look he had become too familiar with in the last months of their marriage. "Maybe you had better give that some thought while you are in the shower. This isn't something you can just wing. Ten minutes Rick."

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

The driver taking them to the interview with André wasn't his usual guy. Mohammad Aziz, fellow father to a teenage daughter in the big city, was off sick and so the car service had sent another driver that they swore was just as discreet. Rick wasn't so sure. He wasn't in the most trusting of moods right now. The new guy, Jean, was short and broad with a thick Queens accent and a sprinkle of cement dust in his short black hair, and when he swiveled in his seat to greet them as they slid onto the long bench seat in back, Rick had seen the same fine dust packed into Jean's blunt finger nails. Yet the man's dark blue shirt was spotlessly clean, even if it was veined with innumerate and interwoven creases from being kept in a some sort of cramped space like a drawer, or basket. So, he had come on shift in a hurry after working with concrete and was too rushed to do more than snatch clean clothes on his way to pick them up. Speculation: he was working two jobs; a man with two masters. Split loyalties. Could he be trusted? The car service said so, but did that mean anything?

Did the guy even know who he had in the backseat of his ride? Did he care? Was he trying to listen in and run to the press with a story for sale? Or was this just another job? There was nothing Rick could see around the guy that would shed any light on what sort of man he was. What was he into? What part of the world did he fit? His gaze fell on the driver's hands, their broad span and short heavy knuckled fingers with their cement dust nail polish, as they clutched the wheel. Were they the hands of a mucker? A puddler? A brickie? Did he work building sites during the day and drive by night (figuratively speaking)? Or was he just a home renovations guy, getting in some grouting between shifts driving for the car service? Or perhaps something more devious? Burying a body in fresh concrete? Too paranoid? The man in question was giving away no clues, just driving in silence. A big plain unrevealing silence. Rick's eyes narrowed-

Headache. He squeezed his eyes tight shut against it. Damn pain pills not doing their damn job. He had cut the dose by half to make sure he wasn't sedated during the interview, but he'd had to sacrifice a bit of comfort. Still the painful interruption had stopped his unraveling calm.

 _Got to get it together Ricky._

He forced himself to look down at the screen that Gina had pushed into his hands as soon as he sat down in the cab. It was full of images, gossip and scandal mongering headlines that he didn't want to see, and after a moment his gaze drifted to his own fingers clutching the edges of the tablet. What could anyone tell about a person by their hands anyway? His own were incongruous with his line of work, he had always thought. Large hands with broad palms, thick fingers, and a mostly indelicate grip. Not really the hands one would imagine for someone who lived by something so fragile as words on a page. How had his mother's father so graciously put it? The hands of a blacksmith.

Oh, his grandfather had been so frustrated with him the day that he declared in disgust that his grandson had the hands of manual laborer. Back so long ago when he had tried and failed and tried and failed to get that wallet out of his cousin's pocket, his grandfather had thrown up his hands in defeat and declared that it was just as well that his teenage grandson had the Rogers' patter because he would starve to death working the crowds with sleight of hand or a fiddle. It was true. There was no denying it. But it still cut at him in his raw pubescent state when he was already feeling the weight the damage to his ears was forcing upon him. And at that rare family gathering, full of redheads and blonds with their long clever fingers and graceful walks, he already felt like an alien. At 17 he was taller and darker, broader and heavier in the shoulders, than his cousins and most of the rest of them too. And he had those hands: those damn clumsy hands. He was a cuckoo. A blacksmith amongst the lords and ladies of stage, tent and street corner.

He sighed and spanned his palm against his forehead to reach and massage both aching temples at once.

He shouldn't be thinking like this. Not now. It wasn't like him to dwell on the negative spaces, to poke around in the long shadows. But he wasn't so un-self-aware that he didn't have some understanding that the unexpected and violent revelation of his deafness was rattling around inside him, knocking against old skeletons and working life back into them. Last night's drug fuddled dream was clear proof of that. But no, he had to stop thinking like this. He had work to do. He had Alexis to protect. His mother. Beckett. His friends at the 12th. He pursed his lips. He also had to remember that the day he failed to become the next Artful Dodger hadn't been all painful. He might have annoyed his grandfather, but he had regained ground when he had turned the tables and entertained the small crowd gathered for his humiliating turn with the wallet, with an elaborate deduction and Holmesian accounting of the older man's entire morning before arriving at the Rogers family reunion. His grandfather had regarded him solemnly, shrewdly, for a long time afterward as the bunch of relatives around them laughed and gawped _. Not a blacksmith_ , his grandfather had finally declared, _a wordsmith! Didn't I say that he had the Rogers' patter?_ _Didn't I just say that?_ _Just like Uncle Reuben, god rest his clever wicked soul._ _Just like him. We'll put you front of house-_

He always could turn it around.

And he would do that now. And the first step would be to leave Jean and his dusty hands alone and concentrate on the looming interview with André . _Oh god_ , he didn't want to do this. Even with André it was just so - like poking at an old bruise with sharp stick. In front of an audience. That's what it was. But at least it was André , and he had to hang on to that positive. Gina had been good to her word in how she had gone about taking back control of his _story_. She had found the two friendliest faces to start getting his voice out there and he was grateful for it. Maybe if he weren't so damn tired he wouldn't have to work so hard at seeing the positive? Maybe if he couldn't still feel the pressing ache of Baxter's big fists ( _now there was a pair of blunt instruments worthy of the name_ ) so that all he wanted to do was hide and write Nikki Heat until the world dropped away and he merged with the story and disappeared. But thinking of Baxter just started him thinking of the 12th. Of Carmichael and the huge _huge_ case that must be unfurling right now, while he was stuck doing damage control all day. And it pulled his mind back to Beckett.

Rick reached for his cell, noted the appalling number of texts and missed calls he had glowing at him, and typed.

 _RC: How's the case coming?_

Beckett was quick to respond. Very quick. Curious.

 _KB: Making progress._ _Slowly._

 _RC: Details?_

 _KB: By text?_ _Don't think so._ _How are you?_ _From your messages last night looks like they gave you the good drugs._

Oh crap. Texts? Last night?

 _RC: I deny everything! You can't prove a thing._

 _KB: I am a Detective, I have the proof right here. Pretty damning too._ _And embarrassing._ _And saved on my cell._

 _RC: OMG! What? Wait a minute._

Rick quickly scanned his text history. Oh. Embarrassing drunk talk. But not _too_ embarrassing. No declarations of lust or love. And she had said good night to him. _Night Castle_. For a fleeting moment his mind provided him an image, a feeling, of Beckett saying those words to him like she had done innumerate times before. She had a kind way of saying it no matter how he had riled her that particular time, no matter how their day had unfolded; closing with those little throwaway words like they were dipped in honey and they never failed to make him feel warm all over. He smiled at his cell.

But that didn't mean she was going to get away with teasing like that. Even if he was thoroughly pleased she was sparring with him.

RC: _Don't you have a case to solve?_

Whiny, but irritated. A good mix to divert Detective Beckett. He could imagine the quirk of her lips as she read his text and found himself waiting expectantly for her response.

 _KB: I had you there for a minute._ _And you interrupted_ me _remember._

 _RC: You answered right away. You're missing me. Can tell._

 _KB: Aren't you supposed to be busy doing press today?_

 _RC: Doing it now._

He paused, considering, then typed:

 _RC: rather be at the 12th. Murder preferable._

"Rick." Gina touched her hand to his thigh, letting him know she was talking to him and he looked up to see her regarding him with sharp eyes. "Are you ready? We'll be arriving in a few minutes."

 _RC: Got to go._ _Into the Valley-_

 _KB: Dramatic much?_

 _RC: well, I_ am _a writer. Got to go._

 _KB: Break a leg!_

Rick dropped the cell back into his pocket, feeling a bit more buoyed, but also now longing for the bustle of the 12th.

"Ready as I'll ever be." He said to Gina. And that was true. They had had a brief discussion in the elevator on the way to the cab about what needed to be said, and how Gina had prepped André and Natasha, but they hadn't talked much on the ride to the studio. Perhaps Gina didn't trust Jean either? In any case, they were in agreement with what had to be done and it was something he could handle. He could. And it would be over in no time so he could go home. As the cab pulled into the curb, Rick ran his hands down his pant covered thighs and tried to ignore that his palms were sweating.

"Hey Jean." He leaned forward, unable to stop his curiosity despite his anxiety. "So, do you grout for work or play?"

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

André poked his head into Makeup as Rick was wincing through the artist's attempts to smooth over the dark bruising and unshaved skin along the side of his face. The other man was already made up and looking his usual dapper self in a tailored suit and an immorally expensive pink shirt.

"Jeez, Rick! Holy cow that looks bad! Does it hurt?" André 's eyes were round, his slight lisp becoming more exaggerated as he stared at the bruises that the makeup just wasn't covering properly. "Oh my god! Oh Gina, darling, how are you? What's happened to our man here?" The anchorman air kissed Gina's cheeks as they briefly air hugged. Mustn't smear the makeup. Rick was relieved to have the attention diverted from him. _Ow!_ The makeup artist at least had the decency to look guilty as he winced for the millionth time.

"André!" Gina said. "So glad it's you we're working with today. I can't think of a better person to break the story with. _Our_ story. And our man here decided to take on a human freight train."

"Madre de Dios! Gina, you didn't mention a _fight_!" André peered into the mirror from behind him, studying Rick's reflection with some horror and a lot of excitement. _André_... "You gotta find a better way to do your book research! Ouch. And don't think you are getting out of explaining to me why you didn't tell me about your hearing _,_ man. But that's going to have to wait: we're on in ten and I have to go find my angle. Those camera guys never get it right." He looked at Gina again. "Don't worry, I'll look after him."

"I know you will André ."

As interviews went, this one started well. André was polished and slick and asking all the right questions that would leave the floor open for his guest to answer with some control. And Rick was so fucking grateful for any control he could get right now. He had sat down in the interviewee's chair with his heart beginning to race, and his palms still sweating. And there was nothing, no amount of positive thinking or diversion that was making a blind bit of difference to stop it. It was as though his body were not connected to his mind, like it knew something he did not. Shit. _Worst timing ever._ So he was left to swallow around it and try to keep what control he had; try to keep his smile from looking sick. And it was working. Until André went off script.

"... We've known each other for a long time now _,_ Rick _,_ and I have never made a secret, not even in this interview, how much I love your books. I am a Richard Castle fan!"

"Thanks André . It means a lot to me that people enjoy my work. Like we've talked about, I am a story teller at heart. It's not just what I do, it's who I am. And it's what I hope people get out of my books: a good story told well." And André had nodded at him, but then cocked his head, leaning forward like he did whenever he was going poke at something. But he wasn't supposed to be poking at anything. Castle felt his heart thud against his aching ribs.

"So I'm curious," André said. "After all we have talked over today, I feel I have to ask this: when are we going to hear _your_ story?"

"I'm sorry?" Rick blurted out before he could stop himself. Wasn't that what they were doing right now: giving his story? What the hell was André playing at? They had already covered the cause of his hearing loss; how being deaf was part of him, but didn't describe him anymore than any other part of his life; and how the story was what mattered. He had apologized to his readers, to everyone, including André . He had talked about the bust and his altercation with Baxter in terms not likely to impact the case. He had taken ownership of his decision to accompany the police officers in the raid and to become involved beyond his observer status without embarrassing Beckett. He had touched on the Mayor's award without gritting his teeth (for which Gina would be relieved). He had done it all to script. Exhaustingly, exactingly and painfully, all on message. And André had set it up for him. So what the hell was he doing now?

" _Your_ story. _The Richard Castle story_. You must have thought about it. About the right time to tell all."

"Tell all?" Rick repeated. His brain was not processing. _Get a grip!_ He scolded himself. This wasn't hard. It wasn't like he had never had a question sprung on him before in his career. _Get a grip!_

"Yeah!" André nodded, obviously excited by his serendipitous idea and oblivious to his guest's reaction. "There's so much to tell, so much we don't know and so much you have had to deal with to achieve such heights. And you'll tell it well, we all know! _Richard Castle: a memoir_! What a story!" André was warming to his topic. Shit, he had to stop this. Now!

"Maybe I will André . Maybe I'll do just that - after Nikki gets done with me!" He said, deliberately feeding them a line to wrap on, and forced a grin, heart thrumming in his chest. The air felt close, too thick to breathe properly. And André's grin widened, eyes gleaming with pleasure.

"And that's a wrap!" A voice called, taking his cue, and shouting out the words Rick had never been so happy to hear in his life. But then he froze in his seat as a thought suddenly gripped him so hard he couldn't breathe: had he remembered to lock the door as he had left the loft?

 _Oh god_.

He couldn't remember.

He needed to go home.

Now.

The rest of it was a blur. He got up. Walked. Down corridors. There were people in his way. They moved. Through a door. And somehow he was outside the studio. He was on the pavement. The sun was bright and painful, stabbing into his eyes, his head. His chest was aching fiercely from trying to control his breathing. And there was Jean the part-time construction worker/part-time driver with no interest in the literary world, waiting faithfully in his polished black car reading what looked from here like the sports pages. Rick locked his gaze onto the waiting vehicle and walked fast. Until someone was in front of him.

"Rick! What are you doing?" Gina was there. He tried to side step. She blocked him. "What are you doing? Where are you going? André is freaking out." He felt her hands on his biceps, pushing him back. "Rick? You're sweating. What's wrong? Should we go back to the hospital?"

"Did you do that?" He managed to get the words out through a tight jaw.

"Do what?"

"André . Did you add on some extra questions?"

"No! But it worked! It was brilliant. We should have done a memoir a long time ago. Or something like that."

"I'm going home."

"What? Look I know this is difficult, but you can do it, Rick. And we have Natasha in less than an hour."

"Cancel it." He snapped, and forced her to step aside as he pushed forwards. He had to get home.

"Rick! - _something -something-_ " Her voice was getting lost in the noise of the city, but that didn't matter. He had to get home.

Had he locked the door?

CastleCastleCastleCastleCastle

The door _was_ locked. It was. Of course it was locked. He always locked it. Why would he think he hadn't? It was ridiculous, but the relief was stupefying. Rick kept his hand on the knob and let his forehead come to rest against the cool heavy wood of the door, sagging there; feeling the full weight of his exhaustion pushing down on his shoulders. He breathed out. Long and slow.

 _Fuck_.

How could Gina do that to him? He didn't for a moment doubt that she had encouraged André 's tangent, and the thought made his stomach burn. Damn it. Anger, at Gina, at André , at himself, at everything, tightened his chest and ran in shivers down his arms to his aching hands. How could she do it? _Because she doesn't know._ No, no he didn't want to think about that. Not now.

The ride from the studio back to the loft hadn't even put a dent in his agitation, and he had barreled through the front door of his building right through the reporters and camera crews without slowing down. God, he had no idea what, if anything, he had even said to them. But he was home now and he had to get it together. This was no burden of his family's to bear and he had no business adding to the weight they were already coming to carry because of what he had refused to reveal to the world. He took another deep breath, searching for calm, and when he felt something like it begin to approach he pushed his key into the door's lock, turned it, pushed the door and he was home.

"Dad!" Alexis bounced into sight as he shut the door behind him, and he gathered her into his arms for a hug, slipping back into the role of father. He was so relieved to see her. And he was so relieved she hadn't snuck out to school or the library. After a long moment, his daughter pulled back to look at him. "Gina rang. What happened? You look-"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Richard." His mother looked up from the kitchen island, the house's landline still in her hand. She rounded the table and approached him, elegantly shaped brows drawn in concern. "Gina called because she was worried about you. She said you walked out on the interview with André . What went wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing went wrong. And I didn't walk out, the interview was over."

"Then what was Gina talking about?" His mother was not going to be easily diverted from her questions, he could see that very clearly. And he didn't want to talk about it. He dragged his gaze across the space between them and took in her made up face, her going out on business face, the toned down coat over a colorful, but not sparkly blouse and skirt. Her hand bag was on the island. And her cell phone. That tugged on a memory.

"Shouldn't you be at your doctor's appointment mother?"

"Richard." She frowned at him, giving him an exasperated look.

"It's nothing ok? Gina is over reacting." He tossed his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, managing a steady throw. "Did Eduardo organize your exit?"

His mother didn't reply for a moment, then sighed, collecting her bag and cell from the bench top and walking back towards him. As she neared, her hand travelled to his face and rested there, a familiar cool pressure against his skin, and she regarded him with a quiet sort of kindness that was tinged with sadness. It was an old ache that he recognized well, but one that he was forever helpless to assuage. "It's quite all right to be finding this whole business difficult kiddo." She said. "It is also quite all right to admit that. I know that you have never wanted to discuss your hearing, and you know that I have never thought that was a good idea, but I have respected your wishes." He couldn't help his eyebrows rising. "All right, I respected them eventually. I _am_ your mother! But my point is Richard, that you need to talk to someone; you need to let someone in. Now more than ever. And if that is not going to be your family, then find someone you _can_ talk to." She sighed and patted his cheek. "Just think about it. Please. Now, go and put your feet up, you look like hell."

"Why thank you mother." He quipped and she pursued her lips. Chagrined, he grasped her hand gently and guided it down from his cheek. "I will. And _you_ go down to the car _with_ Eduardo please. No braving the cameras outside."

"Fine."

"I mean it." He watched her walk to the door. "And call when you get there."

"I will. Go and rest. The press can wait. I will be back before you know it."

When the door closed behind her, Alexis tugged on his hand and they walked further into the loft, towards his expensive dark leather couch with its new handmade burgundy cushions.

"Sit down Dad. I'll make hot chocolate!" she said as skinned his coat from his arms, and lowered himself onto the soft surface with a tired sigh. She hesitated. "Dad? You - you know you can talk to me right? If- if you need to. Right? I mean, I don't really know what it's been like for you all these years, but I'm a good listener." The offer was so sincere, so guileless, so innocent, so clearly full of love that for a moment he had to pretend he was trying to find a comfortable place to settle himself to hide the lump in his throat. To burden her with this was unthinkable, but to have his little girl offer to take some of the weight of it from her father who should be protecting _her_ , was difficult to hear. Almost impossible. He swallowed down the grief of it, and managed to get his smile back in place.

"Thank you pumpkin." He said, and watched her face transform from worry into an eager, happy misunderstanding. _Oh no._

"And I can help with the press too. I know you think I'm too young, but I have been watching you and Grams-"

"No!" He barked. She stopped, startled, blue eyes widening, hurt pooling there. Oh _God_. He reached for her, finding her hands and holding on. "No, no, I mean, thank you, thank you. But no, Alexis, this is something that I have to do." He watched her take that in.

"But I can help." Earnest liquid eyes bored into his, determined and fierce. _Oh Alexis._

"Come here." He pulled on her hands until she was down beside him on the couch, pressed in near and encircled by his arms. The position really hurt his ribs and both hands, but that pain was nothing compared to what was happening deeper in his chest. He looked down at her. "My wonderful girl. Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?"

"This morning Dad. Before you left with Gina." He watched her lips form the words while his ears picked up the soft sweet tone of her voice. He smiled.

"That long ago? I'm slipping. I know you want to help. I know. But this is something that I have to do. It's my mess-"

"But-"

" _But_ , knowing that you are safe here at home with me is what I need more than anything else. OK?"

"Dad-"

"Yeah, that's what I am: your _Dad_. And protecting wonderful, kind, smart and awesome daughters is right up there on the list in the _Guide to being a Kickass Dad_ didn't you know?" He said and she regarded him with a small fond exasperated smile.

"Dad," she admonished.

"It's true. Right up there on the top, just above: playing laser tag and providing a generous amount of pocket money." He gave her a squeeze. "It will be ok, Alexis. It will. Just having you here at home with me while this whole fiasco plays out and passes is the best help you could give me right now."

"OK." She said, clearly not liking having to take on what she considered a passive role. "But I am still going to make that hot chocolate. With marshmallows."

"Pink ones?"

"Sure."

"And whipped cream?"

"Dad! You'll ruin your lunch."

He tried to stay awake in the time it took for Alexis to make her hot chocolate, but he found himself starting to drift even as he watched his daughter reach the kitchen and pull down his extra large blue Star Wars mug from the shelf. The weight of the day, trying to stay ahead of the game and ignore the aching pain that just would not go away, was just too much. He just couldn't do it. So he blinked, and fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed he was still running, running through the cool dark of a moonlit forest.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Gina arrived sometime later, rousing him from an unrestful sleep, and within minutes they were inside his office (door closed for Alexis' sake) and he was on the edge of losing his mostly already frayed temper.

"You are being completely unreasonable Rick."

"No, I'm not. I _told_ you I don't want Alexis or my mother involved in this."

"It's the only way. After André ! _And_ I had to cancel Natasha. And I won't even _begin_ to get into just what I had to promise her because of that. You told me to handle it -"

"Not like this!" Rick retorted, his words slashing the air between Gina and himself. _The only way?_ What the _hell_?

" _Not like_ -?" She glared at him. "You know yourself, you know all too well, that we have to take control of the story or others will. The interview with André went part of the way there, but we aren't clear yet!" She paused, but anger was knotting in his chest too tightly to give her any response, let alone the acquiescence she wanted. How could she _do_ this to him? Again! "Rick, the tabloids are already running those god awful photos of you and your _police muse_. You've seen them. You both look like you are on the run. You look like a _guilty man_. And she looks like a damned police escort! " She held up a hand to ward off any retort, though right now he wasn't making any. He was too angry. Too angry that she was right about the _god-awful_ images that were making headlines in the magazines and newspapers Gina had put on her tablet to shove under his nose in the cab this morning. Too angry that she was right that they needed to go beyond his usual running approach of non-committal silence in an effort not to feed the rumor mongers. She had been right back at the hospital, and she was still right. But not like this. "And _don't_ insult either of us by telling me you don't know what I am talking about. This isn't about right or wrong. This isn't even really about _you_. It's about making headlines that sell, and who gets there first. And right now, that is not us. Not yet."

Rick tried to take a deep breath through the burn of hot feeling, but felt his ribs hitch instead, chest constricting painfully. _Ow._ He bit down on a choice expletive, and instead took a moment to slow his breathing down; make it more shallow. Better. A little. Despite taking another half dose of painkillers after waking on the couch and forcing down half a round of sandwiches, his bruised ribs, hands and face had become even more tender, which he didn't think should be possible. It certainly wasn't _fair._ And it had made what rest he remembered getting, feel jagged and uneasy; full of half remembered shadowy silhouettes and unsettling shards of dreams that felt unformed, fractured and slightly ominous. He had woken in a miserable whole-body ache. So he had taken that half dose of the prescription meds, and followed it with a cool wet wash cloth over his face to get rid of the studio makeup, but he still felt like an old worn out arthritic. And it was making him irritable and short tempered when he could least afford to be so.

"I did the interview with André , Gina. He didn't require my mother or daughter to be present."

"A puff piece Rick. André is an old friend and he went easy on you just like he always does, but as of this afternoon puff pieces aren't going to be enough." She paused, gathering her composure. "We need _Entertainment!_ \- we need Sarah Ma. And she has agreed to do the interview today, if we bring in Martha and Alexis."

Sarah Ma. The entertainment reporter who had built a reputation on blending her investigative journalism background with her celebrity interviews to devastating effect. He had seen more than one famous face reeling from a Ma blindside. And yes, he had to admit he'd been riveted to his TV watching more than a few of those live dissections himself, but hadn't considered that he might one day be the subject of one. The thought made him curl up inside. He ran a hand over his face in dread and winced as he connected with the bruising from Baxter's big fists.

André and Natasha's interviews were bright and shiny, easy and familiar; full of slick and obvious openings for his anecdotes and stories as he touted his books and tour dates. But they were public relations for hire and everyone in the industry knew it. Even if they were genuinely likeable and made him look good, _and_ he considered Natasha a regular golfing buddy, their interviews _were_ puff pieces and were not likely to stop the media's dissection of his subterfuge. Not after these photos today. Not after the tacky and piercing headlines that went with them. And it was not going to stop the swell of comments that were peppering his Twitter feed, his writer's blog, his website. A lot of which were not terribly _supportive_ to put a word on it.

Still, there had to be another way. He could find one. He would find one. Didn't a recent review of his novels praise his ability to find creative and out-of-the-box ways for his protagonists to get themselves out of all manner of devious evils and devices? He could do this. He would find a way. He just needed time to think.

"Why are you being so resistant?" Gina spoke again and he almost jumped.

"Why am I-? Gina, its Sarah _'let me rip your insides out for all the world to see'_ Ma!"

"OK, now you are being resistant _and_ melodramatic. You've already put the reasons for not telling people about your hearing out there with André. Having Sarah Ma ask the same questions is going to go a long way to stopping this" she gestured at the pile of papers and magazines that she had _helpfully_ slapped onto his desk as he dragged her out of his daughter's earshot and into his office," from continuing. She has a reputation for a reason and no editor in his right mind will keep on authorizing scarce resources on pursuing something Sarah Ma has already-"

"Dissected." He almost yelled the word and Gina bristled.

"- _investigated_. You know I am right."

"No!"

"Rick!"

"No! Absolutely not. What part of _no_ is difficult to understand? _Fuck_!" He yelled and raked his good, well better, hand through his hair as he swore and Gina flinched at his choice of word. But his ex-wife wasn't one to quail under any circumstances and a moment later was back in the fight.

"OK, Rick. OK. That's enough! What the _hell_ is going on with you? So you're deaf. So what? Really. What's the big deal? Thousands of people have to deal with being deaf every single day in this country. And I am sure that at one time or another every single one of them has had to tell _someone_ that they are deaf. Maybe a whole lot of people." She stalked towards him, finger raised. "But unlike most of them _you_ are a successful multimillionaire, best-selling novelist with millions of fans who _love_ you and your work. You have the support of your family, your friends. And, I might add, a publishing house that actually cares about you, and a lot of people in the entertainment industry who like you and want to help you. People like André and Natasha. And, I think, Sarah Ma if we play it right.

"But unlike your everyday John Q Citizen, you are also of interest to the press. And they do _not_ care about you. They will chase you and Martha and Alexis, and run with this story until it's dead and the more negative they can make it, the more inches they will sell.

"Do you understand what I am telling you?" Gina was almost growling at him, but he was too angry, too tired, to back down even if what she was saying was the truth. As she understood it anyway. As anyone understood it.

"I will _not_ involve Mother or Alexis. I will _not_ put them crosshairs right next to me. They don't deserve it, and they aren't going to do it!" He did end up growling at his ex-wife after all, meeting her face to face, inches from her and not about to back down. They stared at one another in a fury.

"Do you think I would suggest they join this interview if I thought they would be put in some sort of danger Rick?" Gina fired back, shock and indignation taking the edge out of her anger. "Do you really think that?"

"I think you will do just about anything to sell this story how you think it should be sold Gina," he snapped, too angry to check himself.

"Well. Fuck you _,_ Rick!" She hissed at him and took a step back. "Fuck you." And she snatched up her black leather satchel and yanked the door open. And she was gone. And he was left alone in his utter fury. It raced up and down his arms, legs, through his aching chest with nowhere to go, no place to escape. Everything was going to hell. Everything. All because of his fucking hearing. All because of his fucked up ears, his fucked up life...

In a haze of anger, Rick ripped his hearing aids from his ears and threw them at the wall. They struck the hard surface and pinged back towards him on untraceable angles to disappear somewhere in the stacks of dog eared books and notepads that clustered around his desk. And with that expulsion of energy, his legs suddenly gave out, and he fell back against the same stacks of books shoving them from their places onto the floor. He sat heavily onto the carpet, heart racing, head pounding. _Fuck everything!_ He hit out at a nearby stack of books and they scattered across the floor.

SHIT.

Shit.

He dropped his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Shit. Everything was going to hell and he just couldn't stop himself from losing control. Not anymore. He raked his hair again.

And someone grabbed his forearm.

Oh no, Alexis- Oh _god_. Did she hear them? See him?

He raised his head, and found himself looking right at Beckett.


	14. Chapter 14

Here it is! Boy it was a tough one to write. Thank you once more to my awesome beta: ebfiddler. Your continuing support has made all the difference and improved this story hugely. Any errors that remain are mine alone.

Let me know what you think?

Chapter 14

Kate switched hands on her file folder and raised her freed right hand to knock at the loft door, but before she could make contact with the heavy wood it opened. Or, more accurately, it was _yanked_ open before she could touch it. And there, poised in the frame of the door like a photograph taken just before the starter's pistol fires, was a tall striking, business-suited woman with long blond hair. Her expression was fixed in intense lines.

"Oh!" She said, clearly surprised to see Kate blocking her exit- maybe surprised to see anyone there at all. "It's you."

"Ms Cowell," Beckett said evenly. She had never met Gina Cowell before, but Castle had waved enough _page 6_ 's in front of her nose to recall a few faces and names - and Gina Cowell was one she recalled from Castle's harrumphing over the accompanying speculation below the photograph that he and his ex-wife were resuming their relationship. _Resuming our relationship? I can't_ afford _another relationship with Gina._ She remembered thinking that the tall blond woman looked far too serious, intense and ambitious for Richard Castle. And this encounter was doing nothing to change that view.

"Well." Gina Cowell had recovered from her shock but her eyes were still sharp with anger as she spoke. But no, not just anger, there was hurt there too in the downward curl of the other woman's lips. Not that she doubted Alexis, but nothing beat first hand corroboration: there really had been a fight, and a big one. "He thinks a lot of _you_ , Detective Beckett. Maybe you can talk some sense into him and remind him that we are all on the same side." She hoisted the expensive black leather satchel she was carrying higher onto her shoulder. "And then you can tell him that I will call him tomorrow - when he's calmed down."

And she brushed by Kate and was gone.

 _Calmed down?_

Kate stared through the open door to Castle's loft. From the manner of Gina Cowell's exit, Kate was certain that Alexis had been well justified in being upset; and now there was a strange silence in the loft when she knew people were home. It was disconcerting. Castle was quite simply incapable of being quiet. And in the few encounters she had had with Alexis and Martha, _quiet_ was not the first word she would choose to describe them either. In fact, it would not be incorrect to say that words, living vibrant noisy words, whether written or spoken (sung, enacted or yelled for that matter), were the very bedrock of the Castle household. To hear the loft now so hushed was unsettling. She peered inside. It felt like an ambush waiting to happen.

Kate stepped cautiously though the doorway, drew the door closed behind her, and opened her mouth to announce her arrival when a crash came from the direction of Castle's office. The sound of something heavy slamming to the floor and scattering or maybe breaking. And with that sound, her training took over. Dumping her folder on the nearby table she headed into the loft, vigilant and ready. Her hand slipped to her sidearm on instinct.

"Castle?" she called out as she crossed the empty living area and approached the door to the office.

Kate had only been inside the loft on a handful of occasions, and always on business. The times she had been in his home she had not been focussing on the interior design nor the floor plan beyond where she needed to walk or stand to do what she had to do. And she had never ventured inside Castle's workspace. But now, as she approached the open door to the writer's office she was struck with how tasteful and well thought-out the entire living space was - and how _huge_! And as she drew closer she could see that same orderliness extended into the study. The room was functional and neat, furnished in clean cut and luxurious modern lines, increasing the already amazing feeling of space for a loft apartment. Left simply at that though it was the sort arrangement that might have ended up a little clinical, but the addition of an enormous bookshelf, tasteful and absorbing artworks, warm lighting and the pale island of plush carpet that bore Castle's desk and chair, had created a welcoming intimacy to the room. There was no sign in here of the playboy, the rich jackass, the willing fodder of page six. At any other time she might have found the incongruity an intriguing and even paradoxical one worthy of investigation, but right now her hackles were up and she had to ignore everything but what she was there for. She stepped into the room.

And immediately Kate saw the heavy hardback books, magazines and bound notebooks scattered across the floor between the door and the desk like they had all been picked up and flung about by a whirlwind. The wreckage was in jarring contrast to the orderliness of the rest of the room. And sitting on carpet right in the middle of that chaos, was Castle giving the spilled books a fixed thousand-yard stare. Kate stopped walking, her training kicking in.

 _Subject sitting on the floor. Conscious. No injuries visible._ _No observable danger that would prevent an approach_ , but - and she hesitated again, something about the way Castle was sitting kept her in the doorway. He was leaning hunched against the leg of his desk, right arm held in tight against his injured side, but his left hand was buried in his hair, pulling at it like he wanted to rip it out. And she could see, even from where she was standing in the doorway that his muscles were tensed, pulling the dark blue material of his shirt tight across his arms and shoulders. His rapid breathing was audible from across the room. Kate didn't move from the doorway. She watched him grab at his hair again, reddened and bruised knuckles in stark contrast to the dark of his hair. She had seen variations of this before at innumerate crime and accident scenes: moments before there was a violent expulsion of feeling that could no longer be contained.

Alexis had been right to call for help, but with this level of distress, how Castle would react to her presence was going to be unpredictable. Perhaps even explosive. And so she remained poised in the doorway, considering how best to deal with what she was seeing. Based on past experience Kate was confident she could gain the upper hand on the writer if he was in his right mind, but if she got too close now she wasn't sure she could deal with him coming right at her with all that body mass and unchecked power _._ In the end though, she couldn't stand the sight of this misery another second.

"Castle." she called, more gently this time. No reaction. She stepped towards him, crouched down to be closer but, mindful of a possible further outburst (she thought she had a good idea how those books had been scattered over the floor now), she retained sufficient distance that she had to extend her hand right out to reach for his raised arm. Her fingers closed over the silk of his shirt, and felt his forearm a rigid mass of tensed muscle."Castle!"

That worked. He looked up and pulled back with a jerk and Kate flinched, her fingers slipping from his arm. She lurched backwards onto her heels. Castle's face was damp with sweat and pale around the deep bruising along the side of his beard scruffed face, but it was the look in his eye that caught her attention: he was glaring at her with something huge, raw and jagged that was absolutely shocking. Kate recoiled further to move out of striking range. Then, just as quickly as she had registered his expression, the super- heated emotion was melting from his face, taking the weight from his brow and the intensity from his eyes - and he blinked at her. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He looked past her. Looked back. Frowned. Clearly, she was _not_ who he was expecting to see. It didn't take a mind reader to figure out who he thought might be there. Boy, that had been one _huge_ fight.

"Castle?" She repeated yet again, slow and clear and intent and was so relieved when she caught sight of his eyes tracking to her lips. "Can you understand me? Are you hurt anywhere?" And as if that was a cue, his gaze grew more focussed again. He swallowed. Then with an effort that was truly, horribly painful to watch, he forcefully tried to pull himself together, back to the room, the office. Back to here. To now. To them.

"I-" He said, voice scraping from his throat around shallow breaths. "Beckett? What are you doing here?"

Kate had already decided her answer to this inevitable question even before she arrived at Castle's building. Alexis had clearly been reluctant to ask for help, and so relieved when it was given, that it seemed prudent to gauge the situation before revealing to him that his daughter had sought for outside help. Even without Kate telling him why, it would take him less than a heartbeat to figure out why she had done so. For the moment, if another less painful truth would suffice she would use it. And so without skipping a beat she answered him: "I came to get your statement. Remember?"

 _Come on Castle, focus._

"Oh," he said. And there was still that edge of vagueness to his response that made her chest clench with memories of the raid. But then he looked right at her, grabbing onto her words, brow furrowing. _Finally._ " _Oh. Right_."

"Are you hurt? Did you fall?"

"What? Ah, no. No. I'm ok," he said, and she could hear that he was still not entirely with her, but he was gaining ground now, and that helped settle both her heart rate and the urge to return him to the hospital. Then abruptly he was moving, surging upwards. She followed, instinctively grabbing for him to help and was relieved to feel him grab back at her. His large hand pushed against her shoulder as he worked himself up so that he was sitting on the edge of his desk. Kate took a breath. So far so good. Despite his pallor he was hot to the touch, she noted, and the familiar scent of his cologne was losing the battle with the perspiration that was dampening his shirt. _You have to tell me what happened!_ She had to bite down on the demand pressed behind her clenched teeth as she pushed him back against the wooden desktop, because despite his words, one thing Castle was definitely not, was _ok_.

She watched him carefully as he looked around at the mess on the floor taking an audible breath and holding it, eyes beginning to hollow as he took in the wreckage. One thing he hated, almost beyond anything else, was the mistreatment of books. And he had just managed to do it on a pretty decent scale, and the self-reproach deepened the shadows of his face.

"You are not really doing much to convince me here Castle." She prompted. No answer; still looking around the floor. "Castle?"And she reached to turn his face to her, palming his uninjured cheek and feeling his skin clammy against hers.

"Mmh?" He looked at her obligingly. Right, so not listening rather than zoning out again, she decided. And even better, as she looked into his eyes: there was Castle, all of him, looking back at her. Finally. Even if he was battered and beat down and a bit too silent and uncomplaining for comfort: it was finally, _finally_ him. Oh thank god.

"You need to come with me. Out of here." She took a step back, hand curling around his arm. He didn't get up from the desk, and instead released his hold on her to press it back against his ribs.

"No. No, I have to get these books back-"

"The books can wait."

"But-"

"Dad?" Alexis' voice interjected and Kate looked up, followed a beat later by Castle as he took his cue from her. The teen was peering around the doorframe, eyes wide and liquid and uncertain. _How long had she been there?_ The effect on the man beside her was immediate and electric.

"Pumpkin?" Castle hauled himself up right and away from the desk, clearly alarmed by his daughter's expression and held out his arms to her. "What's wrong?"

"Dad!"Alexis bee lined for her father's embrace and seemed to disappear into his arms. He _oofed_ almost silently, grimacing with the impact against his chest. Alexis spoke again: "Are you ok? I was scared! What-" And through the tumble of words, Castle pursed his lips together, eyes flicking in Kate's direction, furtive and uncomfortable.

"Uh Alexis, honey, I'm sorry, I can't -" and his eyes darted towards Kate again, this time with some resignation. She felt herself bruise a little more at the hesitation in his voice, his actions. Just another reminder of how long he had been hiding his hearing loss, how hard it was to accept that there was no longer anything to hide - and how long she had utterly failed to see it. "- hear you. You're gonna have to-" Castle interrupted the spill of Alexis' words, and with reluctance showing in his face, he gently disengaged his bear hug and pushed his daughter back a step. Kate watched him zero in on her face.

"What happened Dad? I was scared. You were fighting with Gina!"

"You heard that? Oh, I'm sorry pumpkin. I'm sorry." And Kate watched as an all new level of pained exhaustion washed across his features.

"I was scared. I- I've never heard you get angry like that before, so... so I asked Detective Beckett to come over."

Oh! Kate hadn't expected that to come out straight away. Castle's gaze shifted back towards her, eyes widening as he realised why she was really there. It only lasted a fraction of a second, and then he was back absorbed with his daughter and her needs.

"I didn't know what else to do," Alexis said.

"It's ok sweetie. It's fine."

"You're not mad?"

"No. No of course not," he said, lips shimmering momentarily into a poor semblance of a reassuring smile. He swallowed. "I am just so, _so_ sorry. I - Oh." And he pulled her back in for another hug, burying his face in her hair. And Kate couldn't watch this anymore. She wasn't meant to see this. Not this. She should leave the office, she thought. She should. Give them some privacy. Except she couldn't. Castle was not ok. Alexis was not ok. None of this was ok. Leaving now was a more difficult choice than staying to bear witness, so instead Kate took a step back and looked away.

She looked around the room, distracting herself without losing focus, until her gaze eventually slid over a pile of newspapers and magazines on Castle's desk. The top most was a newspaper with its pages curled back around the crease of the spine, and there, right in the middle of the selected page she saw her own face staring out at her from the front seat of a police cruiser. And beside her, wedged into the passenger seat: Castle. Both of them were caught, forever frozen, just moments before she had gunned the vehicle's engine and they had finally escaped the Precinct ( _was it really only yesterday?_ ). She stared and drew in a sharp breath. _Damn it._ The camera angle was so freakishly posed, it looked staged. Her own eyes glared fiercely down the lens at her, one hand gripping the steering wheel, whilst beside her Castle was in profile showing off the dark mass of bruises down the side of his face as he looked across the car. Her other hand, she remembered, had been with his upon his knee - trying desperately to offer _something_ to him to stop him unravelling completely as they worked their way through the mass of flashing cameras and shouting voices. It wasn't hard to remember the overwhelming sound of hands, fists and voices bouncing off the cruiser passenger window behind Castle. The sense of being cornered - hunted. The lost panicked look in his eyes that was so alien on him it had shocked her to the core and, and as the photographer had captured, brought out a rush of fierce energy.

She let the held breath go, closing her eyes briefly. As if that could block out the images in her head as well as that on the paper in front of her. _As if..._ She opened her eyes again.

She had thought that getting Castle out of the 12th and into the safety of the loft and the care of his family had been enough. It had made it her day a little easier, thinking that he was spending his here being cared for by his family and taking phone calls. And that the media were trapped outside. His text messages to her had not changed that view. If anything they had made her think he was doing well, much better than yesterday. It had made facing the auditor, there to scrutinise how they were adhering to policies to support Castle's special needs ( _Oh if Castle ever found out that the man who had taken over his chair had used_ those _words..._ ) that much easier to tolerate.

It should have been enough.

Until Alexis' plea had burst her bubble.

Until she had found him on the floor of his office.

"Dad!" Kate was jerked from her reverie by Alexis' yelp and looked up just in time to see the teen stagger suddenly under the weight of her father, as he swayed on his feet above her. For a split second Kate thought his weight was going to crash the both of them right down onto carpet.

"Castle!" Kate barked, lunging to help him make a controlled landing back onto the desk.

"I'm ok," he said reflexively and blinked at them both, looking dazed as if he had just woken up. Maybe he had. He looked so exhausted, it wasn't impossible he had just fallen asleep standing up.

"No, Castle, you are most definitely _not_ ok," Kate rebutted his completely ridiculous declaration.

"Dad, you have to come and lie down." Alexis said. "Please Dad!"

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

"Sounds like straight up exhaustion, honey. What has he been doing to himself? Clearly not _resting_ ," Lanie Parish said, and Kate had no trouble visualising the unique mixture of reproval and concern on her friend's face right now. It seeped through the network connection to her cell as surely as her voice.

"No." Kate concurred. "Alexis told me he has been out doing press and arguing with his publishers for a good part of the day." _I should have checked on him._

"Well, there's your problem." The words were followed by a sigh. "But, he really should be examined to make sure."

"Alexis has called their family doctor. Apparently when you are wealthy you can have one that delivers. He's on his way," Kate said. "I wasn't sure if we should wait though, so I called you."

"Glad you did honey. And how are you doing?"

"Me? I'm fine," Kate answered. "What-?"

"Girl, please. Castle might have the bruises to show for it, but it doesn't mean he's the only one hurting from yesterday. And at least he has people fussing over him."

"Lanie!" Kate admonished gently, a rebuttal poised on her tongue. Then she was sighing as well. "I'm fine. Really. But, he's really... _not_. I don't know what's going on with him, but its more than just having this secret come out. He's so incredibly tolerant of so many other intrusions into his life it just seems that this shouldn't be this much different. I mean, the things that have been _said_ to him and right _to his face_ ; things that have been written about him for everyone to see... Lanie, he barely even flinches. He just _handles_ it. But this-? I don't know.

" _And_ I don't think I have heard him complain even once about his injuries. Not _once_. By now, he ought to be moaning so much that I'd be threatening to give him some more bruises to make him shut up!"

"Well, I could argue about fine you are doing, but I am willing to drop it - for now. But don't think I won't remember that we need to talk honey." Lanie said. "But OK, it does sound like _maybe_ something else is bothering him. But couldn't it just be that in the space of 48 hours he's been beaten up by a walking mountain, almost lost his partner - _don't argue with me about that girl: he's your partner_ -, had a major personal matter exposed to the world and then spent all today doing _everything_ he shouldn't?"

"Don't hold it all in, Lanie!"

"I just call it how it is. Look, Castle's a big boy, he _must_ have known one day all this was going to come out, but Kate, it's still hardly surprising that he's reeling. What's a mystery to me is how he's kept it secret for so long."

"Yeah, I know. It's just- A gut feeling, you know. I might be wrong, but-"

" _But_ , I know that tone: you're going to investigate."

"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but, yeah I'm going to _look into it_."

"Ok," there was a pause on the line, "Look I have to go. I have an autopsy that just can't wait - "

"That's fine Lanie. And - thank you: for the second - first - opinion."

"Anytime. You coming back in?"

"Yeah, I have to. I'm going to stick around until Martha gets back, but I will head back after that. We're being audited to make sure we can and will accommodate Castle's _special needs_."

" _Special needs?_ Hooo boy."

"Yeah. Don't get me started. See you back at precinct."

"Bye."

Kate thumbed the cell to end the call and looked towards Castle's bedroom doorway. Something _was_ going on with him. She could feel it like a presence in the air: electric and needy - a mystery calling to be revealed, its layers peeled away. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, thinking. Castle was a resilient man. A cheerful man. He loved people, he loved life. He had his glass perpetually half full and she had never, in the entire time she had known him, seen him so beat down - so _inarticulate_ \- that he seemed to be looking for nothing more than a controlled crash landing instead of trying pilot a new path. It was so unlike him. And she hadn't been exaggerating to Lanie about Castle's ability to handle himself in the face of some pretty nasty stuff. She had seen him blow off numerous and deliberately provocative barbs thrown at him from paparazzi—she remembered one particularly malicious incident in which the taunt was so outrageously personal that he had to stop _her_ from reacting. He had grinned at her indignation that day, eyes crinkling, amused by her ire. Tickled by it. Maybe even warmed by her taking his part, if she was reading him right.

 _How can you just take that, Castle?_

 _It's not personal._

 _Not_ personal _? Castle, what he just said was unbelievably defamatory._ _I could arrest him._

 _You would do that for me? Defend my honour?_ _That is_ **so** _hot._

 _I can't believe you aren't taking this seriously. He just insulted both you and_ your mother _in the same breath._

 _What do you want me to do about it Beckett? Challenge him?_ _Argue?_ Reason _with him? Ask you to arrest him? If I do that, next time there will be ten of them waiting._ _And my mother will have to read what he just said in tomorrow's paper, and then how her son confirmed his accusations by trying to refute it._

 _But... How can you be so calm about it?_

 _Because it's not about me. Or mother._ _It's about the story._ _It's always about the story, but today_ _that particular story is mine and I am not going to let him take it._ _Now you promised me a kinky one, Detective Beckett, and I am expecting something suitably toe-curling and lascivious to justify this early morning!_ _Wait, you did say a_ kinky one _right? Or did you say it was a stinky one?_ _It's not a stinky one is it?_

And all the while, through the entire encounter and their subsequent exchange, his hand had been a steadying keel at her elbow - _don't stop walking_ -, as he moved them on, towards the alley and the body and the mystery awaiting them.

Was that it? Was it no longer about _the story_? Was this something he couldn't find his distance from? Lanie was right to say that he was dealing with way too much right now, but this was _Castle_. This was a man who wasn't fazed by gruesome crime scenes, could stare at Lanie's autopsies up close without losing his lunch, who swatted aside threats to his safety like buzzing flies, who would tackle enormous angry suspects... He had even been taken hostage for gods sake. But none of it, not one thing had ever prevented him from turning up at the precinct again and again. With his coffees, his theories, his face splitting grins, and a never ending stream of left field theories and deliberately annoying pickup lines. He had a natural ability to compartmentalize, and she had just assumed that capacity was as bottomless as his persistence. But now he _was_ running. He was retreating and stumbling and seemed to have no recourse to his usual coping mechanisms.

And she could not leave him like this.

Taking a deep breath, Kate headed back to Castle and Alexis in the writer's bedroom. After they double teamed him, Castle had given in and let them pull him into the bedroom. He wasn't happy about it, and let them know it with his clenched jaw and pursed lips and tight grieved silence, but he was too tired to resist them. And now he was laying on his ridiculously comfortable bed, propped up against his pillows, icepacks in place, properly medicated, rubbing his chest above the bruises, and making faces at Alexis as she sat by his knee. The teen was perched on the edge of the bed, one foot on the ground the other tucked under her. As Kate entered the room, she watched the girl reach out and gently push her father's hand away from his chest all the while making a face right back at him. She looked up, saw Kate and in a quick subtle flick of the wrist held out both her hands in mid-air like she was working the throttle on a motorbike. It was over in a flash and Kate blinked, but then both of them turned to look at her and her attention was taken by Castle. He was still wearing that deeply pained, miserable expression, but it was blunted now, softened by the weight of the drugs he had taken. And he no longer looked entirely cognizant, though he was clearly trying to be. Whatever was in that medication was really doing a number on him. Again.

"Castle?" Kate said.

"Oh, he's not really with it right now." Alexis answered as Castle's attention drifted back to his daughter. "His pills are working and um he's tossed his hearing aids somewhere, so he's not really listening. And he's not making much sense when he's talking. He keeps telling me he's sorry and - Dad, stop it-" And Kate watched the teen reach out and gently tug on her father's wrist where he was making another clumsy circle over his sternum. He let her lower his hand and watched it come to rest on his lap. He stared dully at his own hand as it lay there under his daughter's smaller one. And Alexis froze, eyes suddenly sliding apprehensively, self-consciously, towards Kate and the Detective realised that circular action was not Castle reacting to pain in his chest, it was a deliberate gesture. A symbol. A sign. And Alexis was -

"He - you - sign? Um, ASL? He never mentioned that." Kate said, eyes widening. In his list of compensatory tools, he had not listed sign language as a means by which he got around his hearing. Given his desire to keep everything hidden though, she supposed she should not be particularly surprised. Signing was obvious. There was no hiding if he was talking with his hands. But the fact that he had held this back, even when there was really no secret left to keep from them, was disconcerting and a clear red flag. She _had_ to find out what was going on.

"Oh." Alexis swallowed anxiously. "Um. No, not ASL. Not really. It's just sort of a made up thing. We do. Sometimes." She looked pained, almost fearful. "He wouldn't be doing this in front of anyone else if he knew what he was doing. Don't tell anyone. Please."

"No. No. I won't." Beckett shook her head. Though she dearly wanted to ask, to demand, the story, she also knew that nothing but sincere assurances that she would keep this secret was going to alleviate the young girl's distress. So Kate squashed down her investigator's desire to interrogate, hard. And along with it, her own growing unease. The last thing Alexis needed was to see another adult in distress or breaking down, but with every passing moment it was becoming increasingly obvious that the issues around Castle hiding his deafness were far deeper, more complex, and more distressing than she had realised.

"Dr Bloom should be here soon," Alexis said, and her face creased back into uneasy lines. She looked far too old for her young years.

"Alexis, calling the doctor was just a precaution, remember?" Kate sat down across the bed from the father and daughter, reaching over to gently squeeze the girl's arm. "I've talked to the Medical Examiner at the Precinct: Dr Parish. She doesn't think there is anything wrong with your Dad that a good rest won't fix." Alexis glanced at her, nodding, but still clearly worried.

"It's just, he's not making any sense, but he won't explain." The far more worrying unspoken _unable to explain_ hung there in the air with all of its possible medical implications.

"Alexis, what _is_ he saying-" But Castle was abruptly back with them, taking his daughter's attention from Kate with another one of those circles, and staring at her with whatever clarity he had left. He seemed to be fixated on apologizing. But for what? Kate felt that she no longer had the faintest idea. And it would seem that Alexis was not faring much better.

"Dad: no." The girl scolded again, distressed but also evidently frustrated, as she pushed his hand away again, and then she was suddenly gesturing back at her father. Her movements were short, sharp and heated. A few of the signs were aimed back at Kate. Castle shook his head. Then he was pointing in Beckett's direction, rapidly shaping his hands before making that throttling action again.

"Alexis?" Kate prompted when Alexis had paused in her signing. Castle blinked slowly at his daughter and his eyes slid shut. His hands drifted downwards to rest on his chest. He was out. Finally. Alexis looked on the verge of tears, but she was holding them back, swallowing them down. She looked up at Kate.

"It's worse than usual. He's just not making any sense. He keeps apologizing, and telling me to stay with you Kate, and - and - doing this." And the girl repeated a sequence of gestures Kate had seen Castle make just moments before: an open palm swept downwards from her hairline to her chin, followed by two fingers on each hand streaking invisible lines from below her eyes down over her cheeks.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't _know_. This-" she swiped her palm over her face, "means 'mask', like at Halloween, but this," she drew those lines down from her eyes, " is 'tears' I think, but it's not quite right. Its two parts of a word or phrase or - something. But if I put them together it doesn't make any sense. I don't _know_ what he's saying."

Kate looked back at Castle, watching him as he slept, chin sunk down as if he'd simply stopped. The fingers of his unbound hand were curled so that their tips were resting on his chest, whilst his splinted hand rested partly on the towel covered icepacks pressed into his side and partly over his torso. Kate's gaze paused there as she tried to make sense of things. She had always liked Castle's hands. They were broad and strong and steady, traits which she had always appreciated generally, but had never expected to find in him. She had been so irritated to shake his hand that first time and feel that solid quiet grip she so admired, coming attached to such flippant wiseass grin. As time had moved on she was coming to see that maybe that handshake was not as out of place as she had first thought, but that first impression lingered.

What was equally surprising, was just how expressive those hands were. It had become a surreptitious pleasure of hers to quietly watch how he used them to illustrate his theories, his stories, his deductions. It made her think of a showman, an illustrator, a painter, adding colourful flourishes to the images he was creating with his words. It was never enough for him to simply tell them one of his theories, and never sufficient to just hand her a file or point to her murder board. There was always a gesture to go with it. Even if it was just the way he put her coffee down on her desk, like a street magician placing the tin cup over a ball that was destined to disappear during his act. He couldn't seem to help it. She wasn't sure he knew he was doing it. But to see those hands moving just now, talking but without their usual effervescence, made her feel like she hardly knew him at all. And now they were still against his chest and added nothing to help decipher his insistent but cryptic message to his daughter.

One message, at least, was clear to Kate: Castle wanted his daughter to stay with her, and there was only one reason why he would want that. She dragged her gaze back to his slack face, tracing along deep lines of exhaustion and the roiling imprint of Baxter's fist so stark against his pallid skin. He knew was too compromised to look after his daughter, so he had passed her into the care of someone he believed could and would take up the mantle of protector on his behalf. Without having to be asked. The desperation and the trust implied in that appeal to his daughter - well - that hit hard and Kate took a breath around the sudden pressure in her chest. The most precious thing in his universe was now hers to keep safe. And of course she would guard Alexis, with everything she had - _but_ _from_ what _?_ Why did she _need_ protection? From the media? From Gina's evidently overwhelming drive to fix everything _yesterday_? From something else? Was it to do with the mystery sign he had just made? She wished Castle had used some of his last burst of energy to tell her what his daughter needed protecting from.

There was a sudden knocking sound, three fast blows.

"Dr Bloom!" Alexis immediately shot from the bed and was out the bedroom door before Kate could react. Within moments the teen was back in the room, leading the way for a slim white-haired old man, no taller than Alexis, carrying a brown leather case and wearing a grey tweed flat cap. He did not spare Kate more than a glance as he approached the bed.

"Right," Dr Bloom said as he put his case and hat down on the night table and sat down on the bed by Castle's hip. He reached for the writer's unstrapped hand and curled his fingers around his wrist. "Now, young lady, you've told me the story over the phone. Anything else happen between then and now that you need to tell me about?"

"Um no. He took his medication and fell asleep just a moment ago."

"Right," The doctor said again, releasing his hold on Castle's wrist. He reached into his coat pocket and producing a penlight. "Usual reaction?" He peeled back each eyelid, flashlight in hand. Apparently satisfied he briefly looked at the orange pill bottles by Castle's bedside, and then thrust the flashlight back into his jacket and opened his brief case, pulling out a white instrument with digital display.

"Uh yeah. The usual. Well, a bit more than usual. He was trying to tell me something, but he wasn't making any sense."

"Uh huh." The doctor grunted to himself as he grabbed Castle's chin and turned his head a fraction. "He have those fancy hearing aids in?"

"No," Alexis said. Without another word the doctor pressed the instrument to his patient's ear.

" _Usual reaction_?" Kate asked, looking at Alexis, perplexed.

"Dad's no good on these hospital strength pain killers. They make him a bit loopy." _Oh_. Kate suddenly remembered Castle's garbled text messages last night. He hadn't even remembered sending them. OK, _wow_.

" _A bit loopy_? That's a charitable interpretation," Dr Bloom said as the instrument beeped. He looked at the display. "No fever," he said to himself and nodded.

"Dr Bloom you know Dad didn't mean what he did."

"So you say," the Doctor responded tersely, and replaced the thermometer with his stethoscope. "Now, you!" he said to Kate this time, before she could ask what Castle didn't mean to do. "You were there when he sustained these injuries? A fist fight yes? Just fists?" He didn't wait for Kate to respond before slipping Castle's splinted arm to his side, shifting the icepacks, and tackling the shirt buttons with practiced no-nonsense speed. He pushed the material aside.

"Just fists yes, though the other guy," she was interrupted by the Doctor's eyebrows rocketing upward, sharp eyes widening, "was pretty big."

"So it would seem!" he said. And Kate's eyes dropped to the view. She sucked in a breath. This was the first time she had seen the injuries herself and it was spectacularly horrible. A mass of dark bruises and taut skin all along the right side of his ribs. She winced. How was nothing broken? How had he forced himself to walk around like this all day? "And no broken bones?" The doctor voiced her thoughts and followed the words with a whistle. There was admiration in his eyes, but for which side of the fight, Kate wasn't entirely sure. Where did they get this doctor from? Did he come with the building? She watched him press his fingers around the injury, probing with a brusqueness than made Kate relieved that Castle was drugged asleep through it. "Did he lose consciousness?"

"No," Kate offered. "He wasn't particularly lucid after the fight though. The hospital wanted to keep him in overnight but, well, Castle had other ideas."

"I see." More disapproval. "And he hasn't lost consciousness since then?"

"No," both Kate and Alexis said at once.

"Mm," the doctor said. And pressed the stethoscope at various points across Castle's chest and ribs. Once satisfied, he sat back, tugging the other man's shirt closed and rearranging the icepacks. "Well, there is nothing here that would indicate to me that he needs to return to hospital right now. I will, however, call and consult with his Attending."

Kate felt the tension immediately release from her body and she was relieved she was already sitting down. Across from her Alexis did sit down, in a hurry, as relief expanded across her face in a wave. She smiled across at Kate.

"And I will come back in the morning to examine him again." The doctor stood, folding his stethoscope and slipping it back into his case. "So," He said thoughtfully. "A fist fight for our Richard then?" Kate frowned at the sudden use of Castle's first name without the usual abbreviation. "Well, well." He snapped the clasp closed on the case. "What was he doing when this occurred?" And he turned his hard narrowed eyes directly upon Kate, the faint curl of a smile on his lips. The headmasterly aspect threw her for a moment and she stumbled over her answer:

"Uh, I'm a police Detective. He's been following me, for research for his book, and uh- There was a -" And her eyes slid to Alexis suddenly, aghast at what she had been about to spill. She had no idea what Castle had told Alexis about what had happened. Not the bald truth though, she was sure about that. "Um, yeah, there was an altercation with a - a suspect. A suspect with uh, large um fists," she finished lamely, wincing. The doctor looked at her shrewdly, calculatingly.

"Well, well," he said again, a calculating edge to his voice. He looked down at his slumbering patient. "Seems there's hope for you yet, my boy.

"I will be off then." He spoke to Alexis. " He will likely sleep through until morning, but if anything happens that worries you, you call me right away. Particularly if he becomes nauseous or he vomits, or wakes and becomes more disoriented, or loses consciousness again."

"I will," Alexis said dutifully.

"I know you will," Dr Bloom said and reached out a hand to pat the girl's shoulder with almost comical awkwardness. Alexis and the doctor shared a look that was hard to decipher, but was heavy with long connection and a reserved sort of warmth. Maybe this brusque disapproving man _was_ actually their family doctor after all. "Don't be too concerned my dear, I've seen much worse in my career and they have all lived to tell the tale. And so when he wakes tomorrow, for all our sakes, unless his condition gives you cause to worry and call me early, give him his medication and take away his damn cellphone. And tell him that I will be expecting to see him in _bed_ when I arrive.

"I'll see myself out," he said, and without another word replaced his cap and strode out of the door.

"Doctor!" Kate followed him out, hurrying to reach him. Despite his shorter legs, he had nearly made it to the door before she caught up to him.

"Yes."

"I wanted to ask you something."

"I can't talk about my patient's medical condition with you!"

"I know. I know. I just wanted to ask how long Castle, Richard, has been a patient of yours."

"Why would that be of interest to you?" He looked up at her, thick eyebrows drawing close, eyes narrowing. He reminded her of a terrier about to bite and the sight stalled the words in her throat for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. Two could play at this game.

"Dr Bloom, are you aware that the issue of Castle's hearing has become public knowledge?"

"So my receptionist tells me. What does this have to do with how long I have been Richard's doctor?"

"I was wondering how well you knew him. He's having a tough time dealing with the fall out of everyone knowing, and he might need-"

"A tough time? _A tough time_? Of course he's having a tough time! I gave up trying to convince him to stop hiding it years ago," he said, and Kate could hear in his voice the frustration of years of fruitless argument. "Hiding things only makes them worse when they come out! I told him that - I told him, until I was blue in the face. He is without doubt _the_ most stubborn boy I have ever had in my care. He can't say I didn't warn him this day was coming." And with that opening, Kate decided to take a chance.

"Why _did_ he choose to hide it then do you think?"

"I did ask him that, long ago, and he gave me some cock and bull story about being treated differently. Hmmh! I can see he told you the same thing."

"What makes you think that wasn't the truth? The whole truth anyway."

"What makes _you_ think it wasn't?" The Doctor countered. "I know what you are up to, Detective. I wasn't born yesterday. I am not going to discuss my patient's medical history with you." He tugged on his cap, then paused, considering. "I will tell you this, though, I have had Richard in my care since he was a few months old, and he has _always_ been different. He likes being different. He likes difference in others. And he loves it in the world around him. It's the mystery of it all: it fascinates him, like the proverbial moth and flame. I have had more reasons to have my gauze and tape out for that boy than any other in my care because he just can't leave things alone. What's one more point of difference in himself or the world to a boy like that?"

"You don't think the reactions of others to his being deaf might make him a bit less - embracing - of differ- "

"No."

"Ookay." Kate blinked, taken aback by the utter certainty in the Doctor's voice.

"Now, what Richard needs more than anything else is what he is doing right now: sleeping. Whatever will come after, whatever he needs, we will deal with it if and when it arises. I will return in the morning to check on him." He opened the front door to reveal Martha with her key out and poised to enter the lock. She threw up her hands in surprise.

"Ah, Martha!" Dr Bloom tugged on his hat.

"Dr Bloom? Dr Bloom! Oh! Oh, Richard -"

"Calm yourself woman!" Dr Bloom ordered in his clipped voice. "Your son is fine. He's sleeping."

"Then why are you here?" Martha was not going to be diverted so easily. She didn't even appear affected by the doctor's less than awesome bedside manner.

"As a sensible precaution. Very sensible. Alexis called me," He said, approval in his words. "I believe Richard took himself out of hospital yesterday against medical advice, and has pushed himself too far. I checked him over and I am satisfied that he is in no need of more medical intervention beyond sleep. And quiet."

"Oh, well. Thank you doctor. Thank you."

" I have left instructions with Alexis. I will see you tomorrow. Good afternoon Martha."

Martha and the Doctor exchanged places and Martha shut the door.

"What on earth has been going on? Why are you here?" The older woman appealed to Kate as soon as the door clicked shut.

"I came to get Castle's statement. He is ok. He's sleeping and Alexis is with him." Seeing the unsoothed alarm in the other woman's eyes, Kate kept to her less upsetting truth.

"He wasn't fine though, was he?" Martha countered, raising a finger in the air with a familiar flourish. "Or Dr Bloom wouldn't have been called. Oh, I'm going to see him."

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

After Martha had satisfied herself that her son was indeed only sleeping, she, Kate and Alexis withdrew into the lounge room.

"This is not going well is it?" Martha finally said, sinking down on the couch and clasping her hands together on her knees. It wasn't a question. She dropped her head onto her linked hands for a moment. Her rings and bracelets clinked together, loud in the quiet of the room. "Oh Richard," she murmured. Alexis shifted closer to her grandmother, putting an arm around her back. "I should not have left," the older woman said. "I knew things weren't right. I knew it. And I let him charm me out of the house."

"Grams-" Alexis gave her grandmother a little nudge as she sat beside her. "You didn't do anything wrong. Dad got into a fight with Gina after you left."

"Oh! Gina came here?" Martha looked at Alexis. "After the thing with Andre I thought that might have been it for the day?"

"Andre?" Kate asked from the chair opposite. She could no longer contain her investigative urges. _The thing?_

"Oh," Martha looked over at Kate. "Richard had an interview with Andre today. On his show. Andre is an old friend and so Gina approached him to interview Richard about - you know. Oh, I should just get used to saying it: about his hearing loss. It should have been a walk in the park. Andre loves Richard. Adores him. Keeps hoping Richard will jump the fence one of these days. Not gonna happen, but love as with hope, springs eternal-"

"Grams!" Alexis interjected, eyes huge, appalled.

"What? Oh Alexis! Richard knows. Besides it's not as if it's a secret." She waved her granddaughter's shock away. "Anyway, Gina called me from the studio, worried and saying that at the end of the interview, just before they wrapped, Richard seemed to - ah- have some sort of episode."

"Episode?"

"He walked out on the interview, and he never ever does that. He just walked: right out of the building. Gina tried to stop him, but he brushed her off and came home. She said he looked a fright, but by the time he got home he was fine. He _looked_ fine. He told me Gina was over reacting and I just - I let him persuade me everything was ok. Enough for me to go out for a few hours." Martha looked apologetically at her granddaughter and patted her hand where it rested on her knee. "I am so sorry darling. I should never have left."

"Grams, it wasn't your fault," Alexis countered. "Gina came over and they just started fighting."

"And if I had been here I could have stopped it!" Martha declared.

"I don't think so. Dad and Gina: they've never been like that before. Never. I don't think anyone could have stopped them," Alexis said again, shaking her head. She glanced at Beckett. "I - asked Kate to come over, to ah help."

"Oh my dear!" Martha couldn't contain her guilt and threw open her arms to embrace her granddaughter. "Oh I should never have left. Never. What a day this has been! Oh, I am so sorry. You poor girl." Alexis all but disappeared in to the brightly coloured hug, only the flame orange of her hair showing. Martha looked across at Kate, over the top of the teen's head. "Thank you Kate. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being there for Alexis. And if Richard hasn't thanked you yet, he will."

"It's fine Martha. I was happy to help," Kate said.

"But, what made you call Dr Bloom?" Martha asked, relaxing her bear hug and letting Alexis emerge looking rumpled.

"Dad - the fight with Gina. He was so, _so_ exhausted, hurting. It was just to be sure nothing was really wrong."

"Well bless your head, darling. Bless both of you. I am glad that there were level heads around. Lord knows they are needed." Martha sighed. "What are we going to do?"

"Dad said that the press thing will blow over eventually."

"Oh I know dear. I know. They have the attention span of gnats, and despite Richard's airs and graces he isn't _that_ big of a deal to keep them interested for long. I wasn't talking about that." She looked up at Kate, suddenly looking all of her years. "What are we going to do about _Richard_?" Kate met the gaze and held it, surprised at how easily and simply Martha had just included her. Just like that. In. Just like that. Kate blinked, thrown for a moment. She still wasn't used to the easy openness of this family, but yes, of course she _was_ involved in this. Wasn't she a good part of the reason Castle's painstakingly arranged dominoes had started to fall? She owed this family nothing less than her full involvement. She owed Castle. And, selfishly perhaps, she needed to be part of the solution.

But if she was going to do this she just had to know:

"This is about more than his hearing isn't it Martha?" she asked, keeping her voice low, quiet.

"I think so," Martha said. Her words sounded like a confession and Kate waited, barely breathing. Alexis was staring. " He's always been so guarded about his hearing, so secretive about it. I never understood it and he would never talk to me about it. Trying to keep it hidden has been - difficult - to say the least. It would have been much easier all around to just come out with it, ride out the storm and adjust, but he just wouldn't hear of it. And after that rough start, when he finally started to co-operate with the doctors and he just kept improving and improving, I so grateful that I just let it go. But-" Martha paused.

"But?" Kate prompted.

"It's been a _feeling_. Mother's intuition if you like. He tries _so_ hard to compensate for his hearing. _Too_ hard," Martha continued. And Kate nodded, thinking of how completely the act had crumbled in the car. How much he had so skilfully hidden himself, that it was almost like looking at another person when all of that hard won cover was ripped away. "He won't talk to me, and he will never involve Alexis, but he might talk to you Katherine. I think you might be the key we have been waiting for."

End of Chapter

In the next chapter it all comes out. No more secrets.


	15. Update on Revelations story

Hello everyone,

Firstly, for anyone who got an update alert for this chapter - sorry that there isn't actually a chapter here.

I am putting out this note to say that I am very sorry for how long the next chapter is taking. Please be assured that it is coming and is well on the way to being finished. I just wanted to let you all know that and tell you that, unfortunately, it will be delayed for a little bit longer because I am really unwell right now. I hope you will hang in there, and I will post as soon as health permits.

Thank you to everyone who is reading and following and leaving those terrific comments/reviews. It means the world to me. I am going as fast as I can on the next chapter.

Cheers for now

Gotcha


	16. Chapter 15

Hello everyone. Apologies and more apologies for the huge delay in posting the next chapter. I am feeling well enough to write again now so here it is!

I did say at the end of the last chapter that there would be no more secrets in this coming chapter, but the chapter got so huge that it's been broken into two parts. The next part won't be as delayed in posting as this one was so the second part of this mega chapter won't be far off (just have to tweak a few things and see what the lovely and talented ebfiddler can make of my muddle). Apologies though.

A note: there is some Chinese words used in this chapter and I have put their translation at the end.

Chapter 15

"... Richard..."

A familiar voice. Warm breath puffing over his ear. And a hand on his forehead: soft and cool. Fingers scraping through his hair, soothing and irritating at the same time, because it meant whoever it was wanted his attention; they wanted him awake. He could open his eyes to check who it was, but putting that thought into action felt like too much work. Doing anything more than breathing felt like too much work. And everything hurt already -

"... Richard..."

" 'm asleep."

"... _something_ \- I know - _something_ \- awa-e 'n there. _-something-_ talking."

"Somn - Somniloquy."

"People who are sleep talking don't use four syllable words, Richard." His mother's voice drew closer, and he realized she had deliberately lowered her pitch and increased the volume to better touch upon the fringes of his hearing, and his mind automatically filled in the gaps. _Damn it._ It didn't always mean he got the entire content of the message when she did that, but his mother's extra effort always meant that nap time was over. Still...

"Do too. 'm doin' it now: _obstinately_ ," he groused.

"No, you're not kiddo. Now come on, it's time to wake up, Dr Bloom is here."

That grabbed his attention. Dr Bloom? He cracked open heavy sticky eyelids and nearly shrieked. His mother was inches from his face, the bouquet of her perfume descending like a gas cloud. He managed to rein in his jerk of surprise and gasped against the pain that shot across his torso. She moved back.

"Dr Bloom? Why's he here?" he breathed nice and shallow to avoid aggravating the hurt again, and blinked, trying to get some energy back into his eye lids. They just wanted to slam shut again. Every part of him was so heavy. But then his mother was pressing a cool glass of water into his hand and, _yeah_ , that was _good_. He drank it down in one long swig. She took the glass back and as she put it down on his bedside table he took a moment to look at his mother.

He took in the carefully made up face, the coifed hair, large hooped earrings the same light tones of new spring buds as her wrap dress; and a burnished gold bib necklace. Weaponized perfume. He frowned. Something was off. And then he saw it, under the immaculate precision of a Broadway application of foundation: the slight charcoal smudges under the eyes that couldn't be concealed, the over bright shade of lipstick, the chemical bomb of pungent scent. He hadn't seen this since that time he had been out on his first all night stake out and had returned home to delightedly announce to anyone who was awake that he had been ( _temporarily_ ) taken hostage by a suspect - in a darkened alley no less. He had been riding the tail of an adrenalin high, still thrilled with his near escape and how he had somehow held his nerve enough to slam his foot into the guy's instep and give Beckett a clear shot. He had filled half a note book on the ride back to the loft. Pages and pages of pure gold. It was going to go into his next novel! All of it. And the recipient of this ecstatic tirade, his mother, had stared owl-eyed at him from the kitchen island, her breakfast grapefruit forgotten. Until -

 _Richard Alexander_ Rogers _!_

 _What?_

 _You_ do not _waltz in the door at this ungodly hour of -_

 _It's_ ten _-_

 _\- ten in the morning and announce to your mother that you have been spent the night held at knife point by some drugged-up biker! Oh my_ god _._

 _Oooh, yeah... Well, it wasn't_ all _night, only maybe an hour, at most -_

 _Oh, I think I am having a heart attack. Yes, this is it: the final curtain call. Call my agent!_

And for the next week, there had been an extra layer of makeup and an even brighter flamboyance to her wardrobe. A bulwark of color and concealer; and perfume like mustard gas filling the loft with her fear and anxiety and making sure he couldn't escape the sledge-hammer signs that he should be guilt-stricken for his part in her suffering. Subtle his mother was not. So he had spent that week trying to make it up to her: staying home writing and taking Beckett's calls behind closed doors or by text; sneaking out to crime scenes and making it back home in time for dinners filled with edited PG- highlights of the time spent out of her sight.

And now here it was: again. And yes, even though he recognized what she was doing, he did still feel guilty. For so much. _So much_.

And there had evidently been some serious discussions going on over his unconscious body last night.

 _Shit._

"Are you seriously asking me why Dr Bloom is here? He is here because Alexis called him last night after she and Katherine found you on the floor of your office."

Oh god, he remembered that. _Oh hell._ His left hand wandered to his forehead. But he didn't remember Dr Bloom. And Beckett and Alexis had seen him like that! Had they put him to bed? Called the doctor? Oh god, this couldn't get much worse. "Oh," he managed.

"Yes, ' _oh'_ ," his mother was fussing with the light blanket covering him, smoothing it lightly across his chest. She sat down on the bed by his hip. "Care to tell me what that fight with Gina was about?"

"Not really," he said automatically, and winced as his mother's face fell, even as her lacquered lips made a thin determined line that promised imminent guilt-arrows to be slung his way. He didn't think he could stand that right now. He reached for her hand, cradling it in his own. "It's nothing mother, really. It's ok. Gina and I just disagreed with how this whole thing should be handled. That's all. It got out of hand. It won't happen again."

"Oh darling-" His mother chided him. She turned their joined hands until his rested within the span of her out stretched fingers. She brought her other hand to rest over the top taking care not to touch his bruised knuckles. "I know this has been so hard on you. We can all see it. But I think, no I know, that a burden shared is a burden halved."

"I've always thought Steinback said it better: _Don' go burdenin' other people with your sins. That ain't decent._ "

"And since when have you ever been confined by what's _decent_?" His mother huffed, and in that sparring Rick felt them heading back to solidly glib ground. The tension in his body began to ease. "Well, I didn't think you were going to be sensible, so I took action of my own and called Gina this morning." He hadn't expected that! And his sore muscles tightened again.

"Mother!"

"Well what did you expect me to do? I am not about to stand idly by while my only son falls apart in front of me."

"I am not falling apar-"

"Don't keep lying to me, Richard. I know you. I know all your tells." OK, now he was _really_ in trouble. His mother rarely slipped out of character, and when she did it usually meant she had just received another of his school expulsion letters, he had drunk too much and done something too stupid even for page six, married the wrong woman... She wasn't about to let this go. And that was a problem, because he wasn't about to let go either. "Gina told me about Sarah Ma."

"We are _not_ doing a Sarah Ma interview -" He snapped. The mention of Sarah Ma and her probing interviews sent a shivery surge of adrenalin through his body that started a vicious competition with his tightened muscles to see just how uncomfortable he could get. There was no way on this earth that he could even think about having his family laid out on Ma's famous red couch like so much smorgasbord, to be picked over, torn apart and consumed for the amusement of viewers. And Ma would not stop until she had stripped them all back to the bare bones of his deafness; back to the beginning ... Even thinking about thinking about it was making him sick to his marrow.

"Oh, I agree. I put a stop to the interview," his mother said, and he stared at her. OK, now he was scrambling to keep up with his mother's turns and switchbacks and blows out of nowhere. "Close your mouth Richard, you'll catch a fly."

"You. Put a stop. To a TV interview. Who are you and where is my mother?" She had _put a stop_ to Gina pursuing the Sarah Ma interview? But wait - she had stopped it. It was stopped. He didn't have to spend the morning in anticipation of a round two with Gina over that damned interview. It was _not_ going to happen. He had time. He had space. The relief nearly made him swoon.

"Richard, really," she admonished him. "I _am_ capable of resisting the limelight -"

"Ah, you are awake. Good." Dr Bloom's clipped voice interrupted his mother as the small man entered the room. "Alright Martha, I will take it from here."

"Very well," his mother said, making Rick's eyes widen in shock once again. He stared as she acquiesced to the command with all the gracious deference of a Victorian chambermaid ordered from her lady's chamber. What was she doing? This was Dr 'The Angry Ferret' Bloom (he knew she laughed when he called their doctor that, though she denied it) and his mother never, ever let him just order her around like that. Even more than the armor plating of makeup and perfume, this utter perversity of his mother's behavior grabbed Rick's attention. He watched her walk towards the door. Was she _that_ worried? _That_ scared? He swallowed thickly; he had to put an end to this. He had to get his head together and _think._ "Richard, behave and listen to Dr Bloom."

But, wait -

"Mother. Alexis? She didn't go to school today, did she?"

"She's here darling. Don't worry. Now you co-operate with Dr Bloom." And she was gone.

"Humph!" Dr Bloom groused as he stepped aside for Rick's mother to exit, and dumped his case and hat on the bedside table. He cast a critical gaze over his patient, then pointed a hard finger at the table. "Right then: put them in." Rick didn't need to turn to know that someone had found his hearing aids and put them on the table for him - Dr Bloom wouldn't tolerate his not having them in when in his presence, "and then we'll see what the damage is."

Pupil check; temperature check; bruises prodded, poked and pressed; pulse taken; knuckle check; broken hand examined and re-strapped; cold stethoscope every-damn-where. Verdict: it will live.

"Right, now one last thing," Dr Bloom said as he packed away the stethoscope, "your breathing."

"In and out, right? I think I've got that covered."

"Don't give me cheek young man: you're heading for pneumonia. I can hear it coming."

"What? But I feel fine. Well, not fine, but - I thought you said I was going to be ok!"

"You will be. If you stop taking those shallow breaths."

"It hurts if I don't."

"Pneumonia will hurt worse. Now, do you have that new timer on your wrist watch? The one that vibrates? Good. Set it hourly. Each time it goes off I want you to take ten deep breaths to keep your lungs clear. Sit up, you can start now."

"Now?"

"Up!" The doctor stood back, balled hands on his hips, brows drawn in irritation as Rick awkwardly got himself into a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed. _Ow_. "Right now, go on: show me you've _got this covered_."

"Are you _sure_ you were never in the military?"

"Breathe!"

"The marines?"

"Richard!"

So he breathed.

He did. And it hurt. And The Angry Ferret counted off like an experienced drill instructor. Rick was sure he'd been in some sort of armed forces, though the small dour man would never answer him whenever he pestered him about it. So Rick pestered him. A lot. The mystery of the man's back story was just sitting there, taunting him. For years. How could he be expected to leave that alone?

"Ten," the doctor said, snapping out the word like a bullet. _Fuck_ , that had hurt. He felt dizzy, spacey through the tremendous ache that was now wrapped around his entire rib cage. So much so he almost missed the other man's next words: "I met your Detective last night. She tells me you were in some sort of fist fight." He sounded thoughtful, or perhaps thoughtfully amused given the familiar trace of a curl to the other man's lips. Rick grimaced at the mention of Beckett and what circumstances had lead to her meeting the doctor.

"Well, _fist fight_ might be a bit of a generous description," Rick replied. He wasn't feeling much like sharing with Dr Bloom right now. Sharing with the good doctor too often turned into sparring and left him feeling like a sullen adolescent being shown his place in the male pecking order - once again. That wasn't a feeling he wanted to add to his load. Not today.

But instead of his usual return volley, the Doctor was silent. Then -

"Stand up. Up boy! Come on." Perplexed, Rick stood up, hugging his aching ribs. "Give me your hands. Both of them. Right," the Doctor looked them over, took his wrists and turned his hands over and back again. "All right. Now. You see here, this is where you've broken the bone in your hand. It's called a Boxer's Fracture and has three main causes: weak wrists and poor grip, neither of which apply to you, or improper form." The Doctor let go and Rick couldn't help but stare in something close to shock. What was going on? What did the Angry Ferret want? Was this some sort of build up to a put down? "Show me. A swing."

"What?"

"Show me how you hit that fellow. Show me your form, Richard." _Form?_ He didn't have _form_. What he had was instinct, adrenaline, memories of the Indestructibles and Hard Kill, and a bucket load of luck; and most of what he had done in that house was lost in a red haze of anger and terror - and a concussion. But he did it, suspicion or no. He was too curious to stop himself from falling into this trap - too fascinated by this weirdness not to follow through. So he curled the fingers of his unbroken hand into the best fist he could given the state of his knuckles, and took a token swing at the doctor. The smaller man didn't move as the fist travelled past his face.

"Where on earth did you get that from?"

"That's how Brock Harmon does it?"

"Who is that? It's not some film actor is it? That's not one of your super hero movie people _is it_? Oh, Lord save us! I'm surprised you didn't break every bone in your hand. That will not do. Here, this is how it's done."

And The Angry Ferret was suddenly taking up Rick's unbroken hand and forming it into a fist for him -

"Keep your wrist straight! Thumb here, fist good and tight. Now keep it like that and make your strike from your toes up - put your whole body into it. Like this, watch me. Straight and clean, and for gods sake do _not_ make a show of it like they do in those films you watch. No drawback on the swing, no stopping to get in position - this is real life, not the theatre. You want the other fellow down, not getting ready to defend himself. OK, show me again. Here: strike my hand, best as you can - under the circumstances."

"Dr Bloom, I-"

"Come on!"

And he did. And accidentally struck the Doctor's hand a little harder than he intended.

"Ow!"

"Better?"

"Uh, yeah. Actually, yeah." Despite his knuckles protesting, it really did feel better, Rick realized. Even without being able to put much effort into the movement, he could feel the increased power of the swing, and when he bumped the older man's palm the reason for the straight wrist was immediately clear. He looked down at his fist. A-maz-ing! A big grin broke out onto his face. Wow! He needed to write this down. But then a thought occurred: would this have made a difference? If he had known how to do this, back _then_ , would it have helped? The notion sapped his delight and he sobered rapidly. And he remembered his manners. "Uh, thank you."

"You are welcome. _something something something_ , " the grumbles didn't register properly. " _\- something_ should have done something about this - _something- something_ \- state of the world - _something -_ string of useless blow-ins - humph. No! Don't sit down Richard. Alexis has something for you to eat in the kitchen and you need to move around when you aren't resting. It will help your lungs stay clear.

"Then after you eat you will take your medication and give your mother your damn cell phone."

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Rick showered before going to investigate Alexis' brunch (because somehow it was nearly 11am). It gave him a small window of time to himself and he used it to try to pull himself together; to clear his thinking. He did feel better than he had yesterday and the dream forest, if it featured in his dreams, did not become the nightmare that forced him awake like it had yesterday. Or maybe his mother had woken him before it had the chance to appear? Thinking about his mother quickly lead to thinking about his daughter, then Beckett—and that stopped his wandering thoughts with a slap of reality. Oh, he had screwed up so badly; so badly. And they had found him in pieces on his office floor! His daughter and his partner picked him up and put him to bed. They called the doctor... Oh shit... He was the one that was supposed to be protecting _them_. How could he have just collapsed like that? How could he have crumpled so quickly? He had put his mind to so many different possibilities over the years, and planned for what he might have to do to protect his family, but he had never once considered his own incapacity as something that he needed to factor in to the equation. But now he knew better. And the shock and shame of this complication burned and ached worse than Baxter's bruises.

Things had gotten so messed up.

Everything had seemed so simple when he was a boy. Terrifying, but simple. The police were no use because there was no proof of what had happened, and so all that was left was him: a child. And with a child's certainty, he had armored himself and prepared for a battle he was sure he had a chance of winning. It was such a naïve way of thinking. But back then he had been just that: a naïve child. A skinny, goofy unremarkable kid with only the vaguest hints of the man he would become. Even back, though, then he knew he could _think_ , he could _learn_ , he could be _observant_ , he could _deduce_ , and he could _plan_. And so, with that same direct and uncluttered childish thinking, he did just that. He had no idea what the doctors, the specialists, even Dr Bloom had thought of his change in attitude, but he felt he couldn't spare the energy to take notice. He had his mission. He had no time for anything else. He had to armor himself. He had to be _ready_.

Most important of all, he just couldn't take the chance that the thing in the woods had realized that he hadn't heard its threats. If it came to check up on him, lurking unseen somewhere one day, he didn't want it to think he wasn't following orders and was some sort of loose end that needed tidying up. So he had to lay low, he had to be alert and able, and he had to appear to be doing what he thought it must have wanted of him: to never tell anyone what he had seen, and to go about his business as usual. And so he had worked hard to cover up his weakness. He set himself to mastering lip-reading to capture what his ears could not, and he put in the hard yards on his speech. What these skills could not cover The Great Detective's methods of deduction and observation were able to mask - mostly. And when all else failed, he turned on the charm. Basically, his early Indestructables-inspired, Sherlock Holmes-tempered plans depended pretty much entirely upon his ability to fool the world that he had all his faculties intact.

But he still made sure the doors and windows were locked.

Every night.

And he still nagged his mother for a baseball bat, which he then pushed under his bed and never soiled with the strike of a baseball or the sweat and dirt of his hands on the grip.

And everywhere they went he still made sure to get to know the mailmen, the storekeepers, the local beat cops, and the kids in the street in all the streets he lived in. And he always kept an eye on the male visitors his mother brought home from time to time; always asking too many questions and getting underfoot trying to find out who they were and what their intentions might be - beyond the overnight stay that was. Even if it ended in his mother's embarrassment and anger, followed by banishment to his bedroom, those _guests_ were left in no doubt (or so he believed at the time) that this boy was onto them and would not tolerate any monkey business.

And he did have some victories. Like the second time they moved house after it happened, he had managed to get around his mother and change their paperwork to leave the wrong forwarding mail address and phone number. She might have lost a few calls for jobs, might have missed out on a few important letters, but he had made it much harder for anyone to find them. He felt he had broken the chain.

But all in all, it had been exhausting, and looking back: hopelessly naïve.

Now, though, things were different. _They should have_ been _different, anyway._ He had been more successful in hiding his hearing loss than he had ever thought possible. He had money, resources, contacts. His home was secure, with trusted people on the door around the clock. And he had enough fame, enough people looking their way, that he and his family would be troublesome to get to without witnesses, but not so much attention that he hadn't been able to keep interest in his life beyond his books under control - so far. It couldn't be helped that it was known that he had a daughter, but he could keep public interest in Alexis to a minimum. She was not involved in his public life; she attended a well regarded, very discreet, private school; and he did not permit family photographs to be made available for public consumption. And, on top of that he had his mother come live with him as soon as the opportunity arose - as frustrating and awkward as that could be at times.

He even had a different damn name.

He had done _everything_ in his power to protect his family, short of destroying their lives in some doomed attempt to hide them all away. Not that he hadn't considered hiding them all away. He had tried in those first few months after the forest to persuade his mother that California might be a great move, but that had been dismissed with an absent wave of a hand and an 'Oh Richard'. To be honest though, he couldn't imagine a scenario that would convince his mother to leave the theatre or New York. His mother was _the_ immovable object when it came to her beloved craft and adored city, and to have forced his daughter to run or to hide would have ruined her life. He couldn't bear the thought.

What if he _had_ laid everything out in all its horror? What then? He couldn't decide what would be a worse outcome: their believing him or not. If they did believe him, would it have made them agreeable to running? Or would they have been determined to stay and walk through the city, through their lives, with the same quiet fear that slunk around the edges of his every day, like some hungry predatory thing always waiting, waiting. And if they _didn't_ believe him, what then? Would they think he was crazy? Pity him? Would they realize all that he had surreptitiously done to protect them that had also made their lives that bit more complicated, that bit more burdensome, and discarded it all like the delusion they thought it was? The thought made him shudder.

So instead he followed _them_. And wove his quiet protection around them as they moved through their lives; he threaded that care through their home, guarding it with everything he had. He was a permanent sentinel to his own life.

So he should have been ready. _He_ ought to _have been prepared_.

But he hadn't been.

He had never expected his cover to be so violently and suddenly blown. And certainly not as the result of a police raid gone awry and a subsequent mayoral award (oh god, don't think about _that_ ), but still... He should have thought of an explosive reveal as a _possibility_. He was a writer after all, and the unexpected was his specialty... Rick sighed into the roar of the shower. That wasn't true though, was it? Not the real reason. He _knew_ what had caused him to mess up so badly.

He had become complacent. He had relaxed his guard, because in all the years that followed that night in the forest, the feared visit from that thing in the woods had never happened, and that non-event had clearly, slowly, _invited_ him to lose focus. And he had, without realizing it, accepted that invitation to relax his guard. That had to change, now, or everything he had ever worked for would be at risk. His family, his friends - everyone. So he just had to pull himself together. He _had_ to. With the revelation of his hearing loss, there was now the risk that someone (Sarah Ma sprang to mind) would want to dig further into the sudden mystery that was Richard Castle. And if they did, and if they somehow followed the trail that led them back into those woods... No. He couldn't allow that to happen. So he had to act to stop it. There was no one else to do what had to be done, and maybe, if he was quick enough he wouldn't be too late.

He could do this because... because he just _had_ to. The consequences of not stepping up were just unthinkable.

Now that his mother had somehow stopped the runaway freight train called Gina, and her insane idea to subject them all to a Sarah Ma grilling, he had his moment to step up and seize upon that reprieve and do what needed to be done. And the first thing to do was to try to restore his house to the safe refuge that he had worked so hard to create _._ Right now, everything else could wait.

So, he cleaned up as best as he could, putting himself back together into recognizable form as father and son, and writer in residence. As the third member of their ensemble. He purposely dressed in his oldest sweats, a grey t-shirt and his worn out old ink- and coffee- stained robe that slipped easily over the strapping on his hand. His writing garb. One look at this get-up on any usual day would immediately let his family know that the author was _in_ and the hearing aids were _out_. He checked his reflection in the steamy mirror: scruffy, a bit tired and bruised, hair combed reasonably given he was using his left hand. Final touch: test driving a smirk. _Oh yeah_. Satisfied, and feeling more sure and sturdy in his author's chainmail, Rick followed his nose from his bedroom to the kitchen. The scent of coffee, bacon, peppered eggs and hot toast was like a siren's call. He was helpless to resist.

"Dad!" Alexis was in the kitchen with a covered pan on the stovetop and a setting arranged on the kitchen island: cutlery, a steaming coffee mug and a single red rose in a slim crystal vase. It was the vase from her room. The one that he had bought her for Valentine's Day when she was ten; the one that she loved and that held pride of place on her window sill, never to be moved - even for dusting. Yet, here it was, placed by the empty plate on the countertop - moved for the first time, for him. His daughter was looking at him, taking in his writing uniform, with a huge brittle smile on her face. Rick's heart sank at the sight. He recognized this for what it was: fear and worry unsuccessfully hidden under too much cheer and all his favorite comfort foods. But even as he realized what he was seeing, he was already forcing a warm smile and opening his arms to his daughter. "You're up!" Alexis said, and rose up on her toes as he leaned down towards her to receive his morning kiss on his unshaven cheek. His daughter squeaked: "ow! Prickly."

"Sorry pumpkin," he smiled at her apologetically, rubbing a thumb over the scruff along his jaw. It was too painful to scrape a razor over his cheek just yet and it would just look weird if he only shaved the uninjured side. "I think I'm onto something here though: what do you think? A new look? Wolverine? John McClane? No, wait: Indiana Jones. The Temple of Doom. _Yeah._ Indy. Rugged manly man of action with no time to spare for the frivolous man-scaping of the adventureless city slicker."

"I dunno Dad." Alexis looked critically at him, distracted for the moment from her anxiety. "It might be more - Jack Sparrow?"

" _Jack Sparrow_?" He pouted, pulling her in further to his game. "This is _not_ a Jack Sparrow beard! I admit, it's a bit patchy yet, but it's early days. And Captain Jack never had epic fightin' bruises like these."

"No, but - _something_ \- have syphilis. - _something-something-something-_ " He put together the gist of the words as his mother, buoyed along by her guilt-perfume, sailed by him in profile. She glided into the harbor of the kitchen. And as she passed by, he stuck his lip out further, narrowing his eyes, remembering the syphilitic sores decorating Captain Sparrow's unshaven face. That was _not_ even on the same planet as epically heroic bruises and she knew it.

"Oh Richard, you will always be ruggedly handsome to your mother," she rejoined with a familiar slice of condescension as she leaned over the kitchen island and pinched and released his scruffy cheek as if he were four years old. "Now, come and eat. You look positively dreadful."

"Yes, eat _,_ Dad. Eat." That wasn't a hard order to follow: he was both starving and determined to keep this ball of upbeat distraction rolling. He sat awkwardly on a barstool at the island and Alexis served up his brunch with another kiss, to his forehead this time. He seized a fork and took a moment to relish the sight of one of his favorite morning feasts - glistening slices of crispy bacon (still sizzling, _oh yeah_ ), peppered eggs on toasted and buttered sourdough. Heaven help him but he loved bacon, eggs and butter and toast _,_ and he paused to receive the usual noises of disapproval that inevitably accompanied such an indulgent breakfast, but when they didn't come he looked up from the plate. Oh no. They were staring at him. Alexis had her pinched expectant look back, and his mother wasn't even trying to hide her nervy agitation. It was clear he hadn't done as good a job of diverting things as he thought had.

OK.

The best defense was a good offence. So...

He took a breath.

"Look, about yesterday. That - I was tired and - and I messed up and scared you both. I am _so_ sorry. I'll sort it all out, properly this time, and I won't let - _yesterday-_ happen again."

"Dad," Alexis said, and there was a build up there behind that word, he could see it in her face. He could feel the pressure of it pushing out with his name. She was going to hit him with something. "What's this?" she asked, and he watched her pass her hand over her face from forehead to chin: _mask_. He flinched. Couldn't help it. And there was a sudden pressure in his chest and an inexplicable rise of a piece of memory - and he _knew_ what was coming next. He tried to breathe against it, the inhalation hitching against his bruised ribs. _Oh no. No._ And his vision was tunneling, putting blinkers onto his field of vision until all he could see were her slim fingers rising to slide invisible tear tracks down each cheek. He blinked. The tunnel flickered and was gone.

\- _Desperation_ -

\- _Adrenalin_ -

What the hell happened yesterday? And then, just like that: he knew. He _knew_. And the horror, the self-recrimination, ignited inside. Those fucking _drugs._ They stripped him of what little brain-to-mouth filter he had, robbing him of his control, his dignity, and his memory. Usually it was funny and he bore its fallout with a degree of acceptance, like having to endure being told and then ribbed about what he had done during a drunken blackout, but now the betrayal was unforgivable. Those pills messed him up worse than anything he'd ever dabbled in during his worst indiscretions and as of right _now_ he'd be damned if he'd take them again - _ever_.

"I - um," he scrambled. He took a breath. "I don't - That a new one? I thought you were too old for signing with your old man?" That sounded so lame, even to him.

"Dad-" Her tone was aggrieved. She knew he was covering; _lying_. No, not lying. Just not telling. _Obfuscating._ It wasn't the same thing.

Except he knew it really was.

"I - Alexis," he fumbled for words..

"You signed that to me yesterday. Over and over. You wanted me to _know_. You wanted me to _understand_." Her voice was pure determination. But o _h god_ he just couldn't give her what she wanted. He just couldn't. His jaw was clamped over the confession so tightly his teeth were aching. "You couldn't tell me then so I'm asking you now: what does it mean?"

"Darling -" his mother prompted him when he let the room linger in silence too long. She knew too. Mother and Alexis had been talking _a lot_ last night it seemed.

"Was I stoned on those pills when I signed it to you?" he asked, and their silence said everything. "It's just word salad then. Except instead of talking, I signed. You know what I get like when I take those pills." He took a breath. _Get a grip, get a grip_. Everything was feeling thin and taut, like overstretched rubber. "Like I said, I am sorry that I scared you both, and it won't happen again."

 _Not lying. Just not telling._

"Dad, please!" Alexis said. She knew he was lying and the pain of it was naked on her face. "You knew what you meant when you signed it. Beckett -"

"Beckett-?" Oh. _God._ She was there? She saw? He pushed off the stool in a single shove upwards. Adrenalin popped and fizzed. "No. Ok. No, I - ." His hands twitched, pain streaked through both, but regardless, he shoved the fingers of the left one through his hair.

Everything was coming unstuck in one great rush and he was going to fly apart right along with it. He jumped, flinched, as a hand suddenly landed on his forearm. He looked down, finding his mother had somehow appeared by his side.

"Darling?" His mother's lips made the word, the plea, but all the sound was gone. All he could hear was the blood in his ears as it rushed around his body. And this was it, wasn't it? The moment it could all come tumbling out. A large part of him, sick of the burden of it all, wanted to do it too. The thin end of the wedge, that mask sign, was already out there thanks to his stupid drugged brain and it wouldn't take much to slide that wedge further and open the door the rest of the way. But then Alexis was looking at him with such anguish on her face he felt himself growing fierce with protectiveness. No. He couldn't do it to her. He couldn't put this onto her just out of a desire to ease his own burden. How he could even think about doing so was suddenly so shameful...

"I -" he stopped and took a breath and the damn watch started vibrating on his wrist, telling him it was time for Dr Bloom's anti-pneumonia measures. He turned the irritating buzzing off. But the interruption had suddenly helped him get a grip on himself. Mostly. "I need some time. Can you give me that? Both of you. Please?"

They didn't want to. That was plain in both their faces.

"Dad - " Alexis said with something that looked less like the hurt of moments ago. "You can tell us -"

"Alexis. A day," he blurted out, standing firm under the searing headlight of her crestfallen face. Well, pretty much. "Please." He wasn't above begging.

"All right, darling, we'll give you your day, but," and his mother wagged a glittering finger at him, "remember: you can't keep us here forever. This isn't an ivory tower, Richard _,_ and we," she indicated herself and her granddaughter, "are no delicate princesses to be locked away."

"I know," he said.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

After brunch, Rick took his coffee into his office. The books he had smashed to the floor were back in a neat stack by his desk and he ground to a halt next to it. Some of the books would never be the same. Their pages, once so crisply laid one upon the other, now bore the distinct distortions of violence; and he could see at least one with a torn dust cover. The remorse rose hot and painful. There was no excuse for damaging a book. Ever. He stared guiltily at the scarred volumes. _Exhibit A in the case against Richard Castle handling things._

Rick dragged his eyes from the damaged books and sighed as he rounded his desk and sat down on his soft leather chair, feeling the painful resistance in his ribs with the inhalation. And he'd given himself _one day!_ Why the hell did he ask for only _one day_? His stupid desperate, unthinking brain, that was why. Grimacing, he fished his hearing aids from his pocket and put them in - the writer was definitely _out_. And he should probably do Dr Bloom's breathing exercises. Then his cell phone suddenly buzzed in his robe pocket. He pulled it out. _God, don't look at all those missed calls and texts._

 _Was the very picture of discretion. As promised. M._

M: what -? Oh, _Meredith_? Discretion and Meredith? Those two things blended about as well as oil and water, or maybe gas and an open flame. His stomach pinched. What the hell had she been discreet about? He thumbed into the text history.

 _Is it true Kitten? I'm getting calls! M._

Calls? Oh god... The date was two days ago. Two days! What had Meredith done? What hadn't he _stopped her_ doing? He scrolled down. There were some missed calls. No messages left. Then:

 _I am still getting calls. ET wants to talk. I can be discrete. Promise. Call me. M._

 _ET is still calling._ _You know what they say silence is a sign of, Kitten. M_

And that was the last message until this morning. _Oh my god, silence does_ not _indicate consent, Meredith!_ But then she knew that. And she had gone and done it anyway: talked to Entertainment Tonight, when she knew that was the very last thing he would want. Oh my _god_... Frustration drew his lips tight, and his teeth clenched. There were not sufficient words in the whole English language to express his -

"Fèifèi de pìHYPERLINK " . 3"yǎn!"

"Richard!" His looked up from his phone as his mother appeared in his office doorway. "I don't know what you just said, but I feel I should be disapproving of it. What's wrong?"

"Meredith." He sighed, dropping his cell phone on the desk. His headache started a slow build in his temples. "She's gone and done a tell-all with Entertainment Tonight."

"Oh." They traded the same commiserating look born of many many years of shared history with his ex-wife. "Well, how bad can it be? What more does she know than the rest of us, Richard? You play your cards so close to your chest -" She stopped herself, pursed her lips and looked at him. "No, no. I'll stop there. I'm sorry Darling, I promised you your day." She sighed. "What are you going to do about Meredith's interview?"

"Watch it I suppose. Make sure she hasn't indulged in a little too much creative story telling." He shook his head. This was out of control. And he hadn't even begun to dig through all the missed messages that were clogging up his cell, his website, his twitter feed. "It will be ok mother. I'm going to fix everything." He drew in a measured breath. "What are you up to today?"

"Ah, well, _I_ have an audition to prepare for."

"You do? I mean: yes, of course you do. What's the part?"

"I'm not sure yet. She's a new playwright. Not someone you know. But, she saw me in my last production and is interested in my involvement in her new play: A Madam on Broadway! So exciting."

"When is the audition?"

"Tomorrow, across town -"

"Tomorrow!" He almost yelped the word. "Across town!" Not _here_?

"Yes. I don't have long to prepare. I have to - "

"Can't you do the audition here? They can come over? Or maybe over the phone?"

"Over the- ? Richard. I am not even going to dignify that with a response. Now, you have work to do and so do I."

And, with a flourish, she was gone.

Oh _hell._ With a groan he slowly lowered his forehead to his desk. _Ow._ He didn't make the distance as the move put too much pressure on his bruised ribs. He straightened up again and saw the stack of papers and magazines Gina had left on his desk. God, he was still so angry with Gina too...

And there, on top of the stack, neatly folded to reveal the large black and white photograph snapped by some eager paparazzi: Beckett and he in the cruiser, trying to break through the crowd of media at the 12th. It was bizarre to see them both like that: from the outside looking in. And disturbing. He had to acknowledge that Gina was right: he did come across as some sort of guilty hunted criminal, and Beckett did look like his police guard. Shit. He stared, drawn to Beckett's face, her eyes: beautiful and fierce as she stared down the camera lens. It was a bit amazing that whoever had been wielding the camera, had held their nerve long enough to take the shot under that tiger sharp glare. And there _he_ was, immortalized beside her in total mortifying freak out, breaking apart under the pressure like so much cracked glass, whilst the diamond that was Beckett just grew harder, sharper and shone all the brighter.

Beckett.

His partner.

Looking at that photo, he knew what he had to do. He didn't want to do it, he wasn't sure he was actually going to be able to do it. But he knew what he _needed_ to do. His mother and daughter might have granted him his day (oh _god_ , why did he give himself only one day!), but it was pretty damn clear that his current attempts to sort things out flying solo were not cutting it. He needed help. He needed his partner.

END CHAPTER

Translation:

Fèifèi de pìHYPERLINK " . 3"yǎn Baboon's ass

Note:

Somniloquy - from Castle Episode Number one fan, season 6 episode 4. I loved this word and had to pinch it and use it!


	17. Chapter 16

My sincere and huge apologies for the gap between chapters - A/N at the end to explain it.

And as always, a HUGE thank you to my wonderful beta Ebfiddler, without whom this would be so so much less than it is. _Thank you for your time and continuing patience despite the trials life is throwing your way at the moment. Couldn't do this without you._

Onwards to Chapter 16:

 **Chapter 16:**

 _MR: The mouse has taken the cheese._

 _KB: I beg your pardon? Martha?_

 _MR: I repeat:_ the mouse has taken the _... Oh, phooey. I'm no good at this secret spy code business. Yes, it's Martha darling. I am calling to tell you that Alexis and I have outdone ourselves, and if Richard doesn't contact you by the end of the day I will hang up my acting hat and become a... a... an_ accountant _._

 _KB: That's really... fast! Martha, what did you do?_

 _MR: Ah, well, maybe after all this is over I will reveal my secret, but for now let's just say that a mother knows where to apply pressure. Oh! I can't stay on the phone: Richard is getting restless, prowling about the house. He'll call soon. Be ready. And thank you, darling. Thank you._

She was right.

Mere hours after Martha's prediction here she was, stepping into the elevator of Castle's building for the second time in 24 hours. Heading to the loft at the writer's invitation too, just as his mother had foretold. Martha Rogers was good. So was Alexis. Whatever scheme they had cooked up, whatever plan they had put into effect, it had worked like the proverbial charm. Within an hour of Martha's call, Castle had rung through to the Twelfth to ask her to come by the loft after work to get his statement statement [erase duplicate] about the raid and the altercation with Baxter. He was good, too. There was nothing in his words or tone to suggest anything unusual had occurred just the day before, or that revealed the nervous energy his mother had reported that had him roaming around his home. It was just _business as usual_. Even the childish glee as she agreed to his request to bring burgers for an early dinner was in character. Damn, he was very, _very_ good; every bit the actor his mother was. Maybe even more so. Kate let out a breath as the elevator doors closed behind her and pressed the button for the loft. She was beginning to grasp just how very little she might know him at all.

Then the elevator shuddered slightly, signalling its ascent. Her stomach lurched a little with it. After nearly 30 years of silence, Castle was finally ready to talk. God, what did that even _mean_? What would she find when the loft door opened this time? Would he remember her being there yesterday? Alexis would surely have told him. ( _How_ that _conversation must have unfolded...)_ Would he remember his appeal to Alexis to seek refuge and protection with her? It was something that she would never ever forget. It still ripped into her in ways she did not want to examine, that he trusted her and respected her abilities so completely that even nearly delirious with exhaustion and a crazy drug reaction he had remained clear on one thing: directing his daughter into her care. Kate swallowed down her apprehension. Would she be able to handle what was coming next? Clearly, if Castle believed she could protect Alexis, he thought so. She just hoped that he was right. She drew in a calming breath and readjusted her hold on her backpack and helmet, and the bag of burgers

 _Nearly 30 years..._

 _Decades._

She let that thought roll around in her mind again. After years of hiding from _something_ , something terrible, he was ready to talk. The enormity of it beggared the mind. And he was going to tell _her_. Over a cheap and greasy _burger_. A very specific burger from a ratty little hole in the wall place so nondescript that no one seemed to have heard of it, except Castle. His intractable insistence that it be this particular burger joint, whilst baffling in itself, did make it sort of special, but still... It felt strangely inappropriate. But then what would be the right way to have this enormous conversation? Might as well be comfort food, no matter how oily and disgusting it was. It was the least she could do. Anything to help this go easier on him.

 _Anything to help him._ She was suddenly surprised how that thought grabbed at her; from how deep inside it came. _Anything to help._ When had Richard Castle slipped through her professional armour so completely? It wasn't just yesterday either, she felt that. But... But... He annoyed her, routinely. He had come in to the Twelfth like a chaotic whirlwind, messing with her, with the job. Poking his nose into everything, fiddling with crime scenes, playing poker with her boss, trading jibes with her partners and making them giggle like children, buying coffee machines, bringing donuts for everyone in the department until they all loved him like some sort of big goofy mascot.

 _Dammnit,_ he made her lose focus.

He made her straight lines run curved, or worse: into loopy absurdity. Seriously, just how many conspiracies did he think the CIA was responsible for? Or how many zombie apocalypses were just waiting to lay waste to New York? And heaven-help him if she heard one more alien abduction theory...

He came on to her with those irritating lines that just raised every hackle. And he took her return fire with totally misplaced glee. As if getting under her skin was somehow something marvellous and shiny.

And he made her smile. Inappropriately.

He noticed when she had forgotten dinner.

He brought her coffee. He brought her _her_ coffee. _Grande skim latte, two pumps sugar free vanilla_. As if that made his interference in her serious police work anymore bearable? As if his somehow knowing what she liked, and never forgetting to bring it with him could make up for the disruption to her life... She suddenly felt Lanie's eyebrows rising, as if the M.E. was standing right in front of her, in full _uh huh_.

 _Oh hell..._

But, somehow, through all _that_ , he had managed to hide all... this. All this distress and silence and secrecy. Decades of it. She felt the enormous weight of it again. How had he accomplished it? How had he hidden it from every one? From his family. The every-hungry press. From her. The magnitude of the subterfuge was staggering. It went well beyond the realms of luck. The planning, the never-ending vigilance, the utter unflagging determination that it implied was just _staggering_. It was the kind of frightening combination of intelligence, strength of will and sheer guts, that made the best in law enforcement. And the most accomplished criminals.

The elevator lurched to a sudden stop and her stomach fluttered with it. Fluttered with apprehension, if she was honest. The doors slid open. It was time. She approached his door and, without pausing, knocked.

The door jerked open on her first tap, as if Castle had been waiting for her arrival in his own front hall. And there he was in the open doorway dressed as if for an early morning rendezvous with a body, in a blue button down shirt, dark slacks and dress shoes; his hair styled, and that familiar cologne adding a spice to the air that she automatically tried not to notice. It was the very picture of normal. It was all business. All _Castle_. If it wasn't for the heavy scruff of beard and the bruising down his face, and the cast he had somehow gotten past the cuff of his shirt, anyone might be forgiven for thinking that it was any regular day. Damn, he was _good_. But now that she knew better, she looked again and was relieved that she was actually able now to see past the presentation, to see the fine lines of strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

They stared at each other for the space of a few heartbeats, and the anxiety she sensed radiating from him became subsumed by a sharp probing look, camouflaged behind carefully choreographed faux surprise at who was at his door and a throwaway line, weighted just enough with innuendo to be annoying, about how many traffic violations she must have accumulated in her desire to get to him so quickly. And that _smirk_. In reflex her irritation flared and, despite knowing better, she very nearly fell into the obvious trap. Oh my god, so that was how he did it! And she was so primed to respond to the trigger that she had to pull back hard as if she was reining in a lunging horse.

She paused. She had to see this for what it was and use it. Martha had said he was ready to talk, and it was her task to see that he did. She looked him over again. The clothes, the attitude, the mixed messages... He had called her to the loft, into his home, and he had been waiting for her, but he had also dressed himself for work. He was nervous, even anxious, but was glossing it over behind the teasing and that _grin_. It didn't take someone of Castle's perceptive calibre to see that his mind was caught between two desires, running and standing his ground, bringing her in but keeping her at arm's length. Clearly, this evening could go either way and he wasn't yet decided in which direction to go. He needed to calm down. He needed to see, to feel, that it was safe to talk. And that was her job.

"Don't flatter yourself Castle. The burgers were getting cold." She let the pent up comeback out in a familiar riposte, and hoisted the plastic bags in his direction. She would bide her time within their usual banter, for the moment.

At the mention of the burgers, he suddenly smiled, and snatched the proffered bags and looked inside and inhaled. "Ah, _Harry's_!" he grinned wider, a little lop sided with the bruising, but still a reasonably good Castle thousand watt beam. Kate followed him into the loft as he made for the kitchen island clutching his disgusting treasure.

"I don't understand why it had to be _that_ place, Castle. I swear I saw a cockroach trying to escape the kitchen. Why the city hasn't closed him down years ago, I don't understand."

But Castle didn't answer. He was in the kitchen, his back to her, reaching for a cupboard at head level. He didn't seem to have heard her (knowing why that was likely was still so strange), and so Kate took a moment to study him unobserved, noting the hesitation and favouring of one arm, the stiffness as he moved. Still hurting. And still acting. Still needing a nudge. Well, no time like the present, and getting those plates down was looking far too painful to be worth it anyway -

"Castle." Kate spoke, louder and slower than she would have in the past, as she rounded the kitchen island to appear beside him. She reached out and slid a hand around the hard curve of his upper arm, to let him know she was there. "Here. Let me."

"Huh?" he looked at her, eyebrows raised, clearly surprised by her presence by his side and her offer. His gaze travelled down to her hand where it rested against his shirt. He blinked. "Oh, ok. Thanks."

"What are partners for?" she said offhandedly, deliberately not looking in his direction. OK, so that was a bit obvious, but her deliberate nonchalance might sell it. She withdrew her hand.

"Partners." She heard him repeat quietly, as she reached for and retrieved two very expensive and tastefully designed dinner plates _. Ugh, and he wanted to put Harry's disgusting burgers on these?_ She continued to 'ignore' him and turned to put the plates down on the kitchen island. He was silent behind her now, but she could feel his presence disturbing the air like a subtle, tense, vibration. When he spoke again, there was a measure of jovial bluster back in his voice. "Right, right." And he appeared by her side with two drinking glasses and some napkins. She pulled the bag of food closer. She risked a glance in his direction -.

"So, how are you feeling?"

"Eh, I'd like to say it looks worse than it feels, but," he stopped, paused, "well, you saw. Yesterday." OK, that was a loaded response. So he did remember. Or at the very least, Alexis had told him.

"Mmm," she hummed. "Yeah."

"Uh, thank you. For looking out for Alexis. For, uh, me too." He paused, rested his hand on the bench. His nostrils flared as he breathed. "Look, um, about yesterday, I-" He paused, choked mid-sentence. She waited, but he couldn't seem to continue. The seconds ticked past and for once the writer seemed to be lost for words. He was going to bolt, to deflect and divert and run. She could see it coming. That couldn't be allowed that happen:

"It's OK Castle. It's like I said: _partners_ ," she said, letting him off the hook and noting the lowering of his shoulders as the tension dropped. He nodded.

"Where are Alexis and Martha tonight?" she asked, continuing along her casual pathway.

"Upstairs. Mother has an audition coming up, and Alexis is helping her with it. They just headed up there, so they won't be down for a while." He put the glasses down on the bench top. "Soda, juice, water? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Just water for me. If we have to call a bus after these burgers I want there to be no confusion about the cause of the poisoning." She fished inside the bag for the burgers and set one on each plate, while he headed to the fridge and opened the door. He returned with a jug of chilled water, and she considered him in profile as he poured the glasses deciding she could push a little more. "Seriously, Castle, you aren't _completely_ without taste - and you ask me to bring burgers from _Harry's_. Why? I _can_ afford better on my salary you know."

"It's not about the money, Beckett."

"Then what is it about? Come on, spill. And don't say _food_."

Castle's lips quirked into a brief reflexive smile and he gave her considered look; a long moment of calculation half disguised behind the curl of his lips. That grin might have annoyed her in the past, but the fact that he was doing only that, rather than deflecting into some ridiculous soliloquy made it clear that he that was deciding something. For some reason _this_ was important, and a decision was being made inside that complicated mind about how much to tell her. She could guess it was somehow connected to what was going on with him, and held her peace to wait him out.

But... Not yet it seemed.

"Let's eat Beckett. These burgers are getting cold."

They retreated into the loft, into his office, where he had added an extra chair to the room so that they could sit together, plates on their knees and glasses on the desk. There was no sign of the books he had upended across the floor yesterday.

"Hope you don't mind the seating. I don't want Alexis or Mother walking in on this."

"It's ok, Castle. It's fine." They slid into the chairs and she pulled out her paperwork and set up the recorder on his desk. She looked down at her burger with apprehension. The smell... There were limits. This was a limit! "OK, Castle. I just... I... There has to be a reason for this. If I am going to risk a heart attack, I have to know. So, hit me: spill the story. On these burgers. Now."

"Mmph?" Castle blinked her, blissfully spaced out with a mouth full of grease. He chewed, swallowed and considered her. "OK," he nodded, "I can see this is not going to go away. OK." He took a breath and let it out. "Harry's is where it all began." His voice was quiet. "When I started to accept things, when I realised I _had_ to accept them... As they were." He waved his free hand at one ear. "I went into the city, by myself for the first time and, well, I got hungry. I wasn't sure I could manage a busy cafe or vendor, because of the ambient noise level, you know? It's hard to pick out sounds sometimes, and I hadn't tried on my own before." No, she didn't know, not really. God, how much she _didn't_ know. "Anyway, I chickened out and started looking for some place less crowded. I went down an alley I hadn't seen before and there it was: Harry's! Oh, it was disgusting. Just filthy. Small and cramped, with a neon sign that flickered just like in all the best noir fiction, and I just... Mother would have had a fit if she knew." His lips slowly curled into a familiar grin as her horror grew. "It was awesome! Hey, I was _eleven_.

"Anyway, I went in. I was scared out of my mind, but I went in and there was this guy at the counter and he just stared at me like I was from outer space. Like I was the last person he expected to come through the door."

"And he would have been right, Castle. Oh my god, you were _eleven_! What were you thinking? Anything could have happened."

"I know." He grinned, warming to the story and clearly finding delight in her shock. "I know. See: awesome.

"Anyway, it turns out that he couldn't speak English very well, but he could read enough to get by. He had a chalk board for people to write their orders. It was perfect." He took a sip of water and looked down at his burger. "But, then I found out that he also didn't know how to make burgers. Turns out you can't learn to make one by looking at a black and white picture from an old magazine. The one he made me was disgusting. Just terrible. But, I went back the next day. A few days later, I went back again. I went back a lot."

"Didn't your mother wonder where you were? Your school?"

"It was summer vacation. And Mother? No. She didn't know. I was going down to the theatre district with her at the time, and hanging around backstage. Sometimes, when she was doing her show and it was safe, I snuck out."

"You? Never!" she said, thinking: _safe_?

"Don't interrupt the story Beckett," he said, his voice light with mock indignation. "Anyway, as I was saying before my character was so impugned: I snuck out, and I went to Harry's, a lot. I started to try to teach Mr Xiao, that was the guy, some spoken English. And he gave me free burgers. He gave me more than that though, Beckett: he gave me back some confidence in myself, some badly needed courage. And he was the first friend I made after I went deaf." He looked at her sharply, assessing what he saw. "He was the one who taught me to speak Chinese, Mandarin."

"OK. But, didn't he realise you were -" How on earth had he managed it? And Chinese was tonal wasn't it? How did he do it? Any of it?

"Deaf? He did after a while," Castle shrugged, "but he didn't seem to care. Just prodded me if I wasn't paying attention. And when I messed up a word or phrase. I got pretty bruised in the first week, until I learned how to pay attention."

"Huh, so that's where I have been going wrong."

"Ha ha." Castle smiled at her again, his expression becoming more relaxed, even affectionate. Then he sobered. "So, I thought it would be appropriate to have one of these hideously wonderful culinary creations - tonight."

"Needing some courage Castle? Baxter _was_ pretty big - " Ok, she was pushing it now. Taking a risk on him needing the banter, the familiar cover of humor, to take the next step.

"No. Not because of Baxter." He put down his burger and wiped his hand on a napkin. He took a breath and let it out. "Beckett, before we go any further, there's something I have to talk to you about, but I'm not sure I - I'm not sure I-

"There's something-" He stopped and grimaced, frustrated when the words wouldn't come. But he tried again, voice now devoid of humour - "Alexis told me what happened yesterday. I am sorry you saw that, but I have been thinking that maybe it was meant to happen. I- I think, maybe, this is all happening because it's _time it did_. You know, like a sign from the universe that it's all right now, to tell someone. That I _need_ to tell someone. Because I can't do it alone. Anymore."

Beckett stared at him. Her mind was racing to all sorts of places to try to deduce what he was hinting at. Dark places too. Her time in the NYPD held no shortage of horrors from which she could choose and his tone was sending her mind right down into those terrible places. It was unbearable. If even one of those nightmares had happened to him, it was just too -

"Beckett? Oh, no. Um. OK. I'm ok. I'm ok. I wasn't - This is not- I'm messing this up." He stood abruptly. "We need coffee. Coffee. Yes, coffee. Wait here. I'll be right back." And he was gone.

End of Chapter 16

A/N: I am SO sorry for the delays between chapters at the moment. I have had a neck injury that prevents me from spending time at the keyboard - sometimes for days at a time. I am getting treatment for it, and it should heal, but at times I just can't type. I hope that you will stick with me while I battle on. Please know that I am thinking about this story all the time and writing it in my head whenever I can't type. And typing when I can. I have Chapter 17 nearly ready to go and will post that in the next week - that is a promise. Thank you everyone - and let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A/N: at the end

v

v

v

The espresso machine was grinding its way through the _Colombia El Sombrero_ beans Castle had fallen in love with last week, but he could barely feel the whirr against his fingers as he waited, or smell the faint fruity notes that had drawn him to them in the first place. Instead he was cursing himself. He was messing this up. Royally. Visions of Beckett's pinched, paling face when he had just launched into that ridiculously stumbling confession like a charging bull, kept on floating past his inner eye. _Oh god._ He could just imagine the horror show she thought she was about to be thrown head first into. Cops were like that: they had the worst places to go to in their minds when prompted, and he had shoved her right into the middle of those places without thinking. He was screwing things up. Scaring his partner. Handling things like an ass. Damn it. But, coffee would sort things out and bring sanity. Coffee was the way.

He reached for the cups. The skim milk. The sugar free vanilla. He tried to focus on creating something like Beckett's beverage of choice. Making coffee, making anything in the kitchen, had always been a source of Zen for him, and so he tried to lose himself in the quiet familiar patterns, smells and feelings. The setting out of the cups, the vibrations of the grinder against the pads of his fingers as he monitored is progress, the soft feeling of the jets of steam through the barrier of the metal cup as he heated the milk and smelled its approaching readiness for the next step, pouring the hot liquid, the familiar sensation of wisps of steam rising to stroke his face. All familiar. All safe and quieting and real.

The coffee was done: steaming and fragrant and ready.

It was time.

He took a deep breath and raised his gaze to the upper floor of the loft where he knew his mother and daughter were. They had granted him a day. Despite their fears, they had steeled themselves and granted him a day to work things out. And he had to do it. For them. It was his job to keep on protecting them, and he had been preparing for this day for over 25 years. He had to pull himself together and do whatever he had to to keep them safe. No matter how hard or how painful. For them, he would do it. And before he or Mer or Gina or anyone else could make things even worse than they were.

Castle strode back to the office and back to his chair. Beckett was looking marginally more composed than when he had left the room and took her cup from him with both hands, pausing the inhale the steam. She blinked up at him, elegantly shaped eyebrows rising in surprise as she evidently caught the familiar vanilla notes rising upwards from the cup. She peered inside and he watched her expression soften with something he wasn't sure he could be reading correctly. He sank into his chair with only a slight grimace as his ribs protested.

"I am sorry about before." He started while she was still peering into the coffee. "I didn't mean to plow in like that."

"Castle," she admonished gently, looking back at him. "It's ok. I have to confess, though, I wasn't entirely taken by surprise. After yesterday, I knew there was something going on, and if I can help-" She left the sentence hanging, expectantly. She was waiting for him. Fierce, determined, loyal, protective, curious Kate Beckett, waiting for him to talk, and then offering him her help. Just like that. _Partners._ The thought that finally, finally, he could reach out and hang on to someone... He just hoped that she would still feel the same way after he was done talking.

It was time.

"I was eleven years old. It had been about six months since I had been sick, I hadn't yet met Mr Xiao, and uh... I wasn't coping... very well. Mother was supposed to be touring with Pippin, but she had to pull out. Because of me. And, uh." Rick stopped for a moment, exhaling in an edgy huff and drawing another quick breath, feeling the sharp warning pain as his ribs moved. He looked at Beckett, but the curiosity he read there, that she was trying to hold back, was too much to withstand and he dropped his gaze back to his hands. "This is um, harder than I thought it would be," he told her. "You know, I just realized I've never said any of this. To anyone. Out loud, I mean."

"Take your time," Beckett said from her chair from which she had not moved since he started talking. He took a moment to breathe, and nodded. And seeing her sitting there with face and limbs relaxed, continuing to cradle her coffee mug against her chest was like having an anchor, a stable point to hang onto as everything else shimmered and threatened to come unstuck around him. He drew in the sight and held it close with his next breath.

 _Yeah_ , he could do this.

"The family of a classmate contacted my mother to ask if I would like to join them in New Hampshire for President's Day weekend. I don't know why. Pity, maybe? Anyway, Mother thought it might help and sent me along with them." He paused to breathe again, gaze flicking towards his still point, then away and back. The cliff's edge was drawing nearer. He swallowed.

"It was uh, uncomfortable for everyone. I don't think they had any clue how to deal with my hearing issues. And I couldn't help them: I didn't have any more idea than they did back then. Anyway, their home abutted a few hundred acres of state forest called Hollander's Woods. My classmate and I were told never to go in there alone." He couldn't help but steal another glance at Beckett and saw the upward flicker of her lips as she recognized the challenge they had inadvertently set him with that warning. He _knew_ she would understand.

 _Partners._

"That afternoon I - I climbed over the fence into the woods. I had never been into a forest before and Hollander's woods was just... _magical_. The trees were _huge_ and so old, like I always imagined the Ents and the Forest of Fangorn, you know?" Beckett nodded, understanding yet another of his references, which thrilled him despite the current context. "I walked for hours. I was cold, and pretty quickly, I got completely lost, and that's when- when - uh, I saw -" And that was it. The words wouldn't come and he hung there on the edge of the precipice, looking down. Down.

And saw -

 _\- the figure, cloaked in shadows darker than the blackest pockets of the woods and crouched by a fallen tree in a clearing not 30 feet from where he had just tromped to a stop. The ends of its black cape flowed out from its shoulders like Dracula, like Darth Vader; stretching and thinning until they finally melted away into the soft dark soak of approaching dusk._

 _He was wet through with the chilled damp of a late February afternoon, but he didn't dare move except to breathe that frigid air and shiver. He had been lost for so long and desperate that he would come across someone out walking, someone who could show him the way out of this maze of forest. And_ finally _this was someone (some_ thing _?). But instead of hope and relief, it filled him with a cold paralyzing dread_ _._

 _He knew, he just knew, something bad was happening. Something wrong, and terrifying and -_

 _He couldn't move._

"... Castle."

 _And then that figure was moving. Like liquid darkness. Flowing, melting, shifting, merging into the forest. The way it moved, it wasn't human. Couldn't be. But it was moving away from him, away from the fallen tree. It was_ leaving _. And he was staying, anchored by his soaked sneakers half submerged in a cold wet stinking compost of leaves and rot. When it was gone, his eyes left the thick wall of vegetation it had blended into and drifted back to the fallen tree -_

"Castle!"

"Huh?" His hand dropped from his mouth; he blinked and the dark cold forest dissolved into the familiar warmth of his office, and the kind hazel eyes of the woman now crouched in front of him. "Beckett?" he croaked. _Oh._ That hadn't happened for a long time. Years. He saw the concern in her eyes and shied from it. He swallowed and looked away, down, seeing their hands, fingers, entangled on his lap. Her skin was warm against the forest's chill. He stared, mesmerized by their entwined hands, how they contrasted: her fingers so slender and graceful compared to his. Looking at them now, no one would ever guess who was the stronger...

Then a hand on his cheek, fingers pressing in lightly, insistently, until he raised his eyes to track back to her.

"Do you need to take a break?" she asked in a tone so low and quiet that he had to catch the words from her lips, find their shapes and draw them out. Her lips - He wanted - He stared. "Castle." She said again and he realized he was gaping like an imbecile. Dammit. He gritted his teeth.

"No, uh no. No." He looked away, reluctantly disentangled their hands and raised one of his to slide his fingers through his hair. _Distance._ He needed a bit of distance. Beckett appeared unoffended by his abrupt withdrawal, rising in one graceful move to return quietly to her chair. She picked up her cup. He exhaled. Distance. Find the words and get them out. He stood abruptly and unclenched his jaw, cleared his throat.

"There was a figure clad in black, kneeling, not thirty feet from me. After a few moments it left and that's when I saw her on the ground."

"Her?" He caught the shape of her question; half-intuited it.

"A woman. A body. The first body I ever saw." His breath suddenly fluttered in his throat, trapped. _No._ _Don't stop. Find the words. Get them out._ He touched the skin above his collar. "Her throat had been slit and there were - symbols - carved into her forehead and her cheeks. I - I touched her arm. I remember thinking how cold it was."

 _A flash of midnight. He was hit in the chest. Hard. A gloved hand twisted into a handful of his t-shirt and jacket. And then he was propelled off his feet so fast, so hard, against the rough bark of a tree. His back slammed against it and all the air was forced from his lungs._

 _A face._

 _A mask. Stark white. Dark ink slashed through the eyes, across the bridge of the nose. The same ink dripping tears down its cheeks._

 _A knife, still sticky-wet with_ her _blood, pressed a hard line into his throat. It dug in and cut, like the razor sharp shards of the glass tumbler he had broken last week. He still had the bandaid on his thumb from a piece he had grabbed from the floor._

 _But the mask. Right up close. It hissed at him. Low and fierce and tickling along the newly excised edges of his hearing._

 _"-something- something- anyone-something-kill -ou! Do - something-something?"_

 _He stared._

 _And the knife pressed harder, so he could barely breathe around it. The hand pulled him back and slammed him against the tree again as if it was trying to loosen his tied tongue. It wanted something. He might have been terrified, but something inside him gave him the ability to still pull thoughts together and he knew that unless he gave this thing what it wanted he was going to die. Like her. His throat cut open from ear to ear. Left to lie on the cold on the forest floor._

 _So he nodded - as much as he could around the line of cold pain slicing into his neck - hoping that that was what it wanted._

 _But instead of letting him go, it suddenly yanked him away from the tree and he was falling, falling onto the leaf softened ground. And it had his jacket. It turned it to face him, and he saw what it had seen printed on the inside collar of his coat in his mother's unique swirling handwriting._

 _Rogers_

 _555-4370_

 _He didn't need to hear what it must be saying as the mask jerked towards him. The knife drew a faint crimson line under the phone number._

 _"GO!" He didn't need any help to understand_ that _._

 _He ran._

 _And ran._

 _Through the cool dark of the night time forest. Running. Running._

Rick squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pressed at his eyelids with his fingers, as the memory swelled up inside. An old, old unvoiced panic clawed at his ribs. _No! Get a grip. Find the words. Get them out._ He took a breath and lowered his hand, looking at his partner once more. She was quiet and still. Waiting for him. He pushed on.

"I thought it had gone, but I was wrong. It caught me, put a knife to my throat and threatened me, I think."

"You _think_?" Kate asked.

"It was talking, but I couldn't _hear_ it." He swallowed thickly, hating himself for that failure to understand. Hating the next part too - that this thing had robbed him of his quiet nights dreaming of Flash Gordon and the Indestructibles, and in their place added a preoccupying edge to his life that shouldn't have been there - at any age. "I had to assume that's what it was doing. And - it took my jacket." He watched Beckett's eyebrows climb her forehead as she pondered the significance of that. He took a breath. "Mother had written my name and our contact details on the inside collar. In case it ever got lost."

"Oh, Castle." He watched the lines of concentration, of puzzle solving, disappear from her face as she put the pieces together and realized where this story was going to end. He supposed he could even stop there - she could take the mystery home without him speaking another word. And she would grant him that reprieve if he wanted it; needed it. She would not push him a word further, but now he found he had to keep going. Now that he had started the story, he knew that it had to find its way to the end. And he had to be the one to take it there.

"I - I often wondered why it left me alive that day. What's one more body? A kid. So easy to dispose of - believe me I know, I looked into it when I was older. There was no way I could have fought back; no way I could have survived. But instead it let me go, let me _run,_ knowing that it could find me - find my _mother_ \- and do - do what it did to that woman - whenever it wanted." His fingers rose to his throat. Floated upwards, to land just above his collar. "No, I think it let me go because it wanted to. Because it was _a thrill._ It was exciting. Because it wanted something to chase."

"Castle." Beckett breathed the word so quietly, it was only because he was so familiar with how her lips curled around his name that he knew what she was saying; and the horror and quiet compassion in her eyes filled out the rest. He pulled in _a_ breath. He wasn't done yet and it wouldn't do to fall into that well of empathy before she knew all of it. Even though he was feeling antsy with the strong need he had just to touch her, to hold on to her; living, breathing, alive and warm; he had to finish this. But before he could go on _she_ reached out to _him_ , long slim fingers curling around his wrist. His skin tingled with the contact. She had been touching him a lot since finding out he was deaf, he suddenly realized. It was a tactic he'd had to request of the few people he'd told about his hearing, but Beckett was doing it now without having to be asked. Touch extended his damaged senses; it acted as both anchor and rudder, and he valued its calculated use like gold. That Beckett was using it without having to be asked or educated just how, was thrilling and overwhelming. _Yeah_ , he'd made the right choice to confide in her. "And you never told _any_ one?" she prompted him, and he realized he had been drifting in his thoughts.

Her question cut like a knife and guilt welled in the slice it made. No, he hadn't told anyone. Ever. That poor, poor woman lying out there, alone in the dark forest. And no one knew she was there, but him. And that _thing_. He swallowed. It was more than guilt. It was shame. After arriving back in the city, he had stared down at the payphone on the corner of their block and despaired. He watched people, properly intact people, come and go, carelessly jamming that shiny black handset between shoulder and ear while they fumbled for loose change and searched their pockets for mislaid phone numbers scribbled on the backs of torn notepads and envelopes. He imagined their fingers carelessly tapping out numbers on the number pad, waiting to connect and talk to someone on the other end, to listen to their words as they spoke in return. He watched them as they chatted and laughed and yelled and shouted their replies to whomever they were listening to. Like it was nothing of any significance. No big deal. Nothing worthy of any thought. But for him, it was an impossible act, and the utter impossibility of it in the cutting face of his desperation, felt nothing short of torture. Down below their apartment in that little glass box, hanging there forever out of his reach, was the one way he could _tell_ what had happened. No matter how scared he was of catching a glimpse of that pale mask or a whisk of black cloth in the shadowed crevices of the buildings, or blended into the shades of parked cars, he would have given anything to be able to grab that handset and dial 911. To be able to hear when the call was picked up at the other end, to be sure he was talking to someone, to hear their questions and _tell_. But he couldn't. And so it all froze there, in his mind, unresolved, untold. A great and terrible mystery that could never be put right and _fixed_.

"No," he admitted, old stale self-reproach making the word stick and jam in his throat until he had to force it out. The shame burnt like acid and it actually hurt to tilt his head to sneak a look at Beckett's face. To gauge her reaction at what he said next: "I couldn't use the damn payphone to make the 911 call. And I was too scared to go down to the local precinct." He saw nothing but compassion and couldn't figure out if he was grateful or not.

"That's not quite what I meant Castle, but ok." Beckett shook her head at him, small tight movements, the slight tug of a sad sort of exasperation flicking at her lips. He frowned, puzzled. She let go of his wrist, still in Detective mode he supposed. "Did you ever find out who the woman was?"

"I checked local papers at my friend's house, and listened to their radio whenever I could, as well. I did the same as soon as I got home, but -" _God, what he wouldn't have given for a computer, Google and easy access 24 hour news back then_. He cleared his throat. If she could do this, he could. "No one in the area had been reported missing."

"And the man who threatened you?"

"We moved the month after it happened, so-"

"You know that's no real protection Castle."

"I know. I found that out just after we moved and we started getting forwarded mail. At the time, though, I thought that meant it was all going to be ok. I thought we were free. But no, to answer your question: I haven't seen it again.

"But, when I got older I _did_ check with missing persons for that woman, even the FBI database, for anyone matching that her description, or any crimes involving those symbols or that mask, but there was nothing. It's almost like it never happened."

He looked across the space at Beckett and found her lost in thought. It was an expression he recognized very well: she was considering the information that she had just received; working it over in her razor sharp mystery-solving mind. Trying to put the right words to her thoughts. Careful. Cautious.

"And -" She drew in her own breath then, stalling. He could see the hesitation written on her face, in her stiffened posture even as she leaned towards him. He had seen this before: when they were interviewing witnesses on scene. His hackles rose. "And are you sure it did?" she asked, her voice gentle. Too gentle.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"It - It's just- Castle, do you know that this entire time you have been referring to this _murderer_ , this _person_ , you saw in the woods as ' _it_ '. Do you know that?"

He had been calling the attacker _it_? He searched his memory. He had. Shock quieted him for a long moment. He had a good idea why he had been using an impersonal pronoun to identify it, _the man_ , in the woods. Distancing himself. A way to cope. He had read reams on the psychology of crime from all sides, all the way from psychopathic murderers to the lingering trauma suffered by survivors, but he had somehow missed this huge tell in himself? How the _hell_ had he done that? And, _oh,_ how he must sound to someone with Beckett's background and experience... But that didn't make him a liar or delusional. It did _not_ mean he had imagined the whole thing, or dreamt it up. He had felt that blade cut against his throat, and he had touched that woman's cold skin. He had seen that thing- that _man_ \- he _had_.

Beckett drew his attention back to her with a touch.

"So I have to ask: are you sure what you saw is what you saw? You were just a little boy, a child already grappling with major trauma, lost in a strange place, alone - I have to ask: are you sure that - "

"I'm sure!" he interrupted her, anger making his words sharp. "Beckett, I know what I saw, I know what happened to me; to _her_. I _know_." Beckett didn't speak, but sank her teeth into the flesh of her lower lip. Waiting. A pressured silence designed to weigh upon the target, testing to see if the story held up; waiting for a retraction, a correction of the story. That sight, which before this moment he had found so distractingly hot now just sent sparks of fury throughout his body. "Don't do this to me Beckett. Don't look at me like that," he warned her, his voice crackling over the words. "I know what I saw. That day changed everything, and I am who I am because of it. That day... That day, that's why I do what I do. Because I've never been able to solve what happened in those woods. I write - I - " The words were spilling out now, tumbling and rushing out in jagged surging waves, like a river finally set free.

"But why didn't you talk to anyone about this Castle?" And _oh_ , he understood now what she had been asking him before. Why hadn't he _confided_ , asked for help?

"Who could I tell? My friend? His parents? By the time I found my way back to his house it was dark, and they were out of their minds . I looked like hell: all scratched up and muddy. And they had been responsible for looking after me that weekend: some crippled up kid they had taken pity on and - and how would they live it down that they hadn't? How could they cope with other parents knowing that they weren't up to handling it. They were heading up just about every committee at that damn school and this was charity work. No, no, I just got cleaned up and we all pretended like nothing happened."

"Castle-" Beckett said. Then stopped. "But not even your mother?"

"There was no _proof_ , Beckett. Nothing." How could he make her understand? "The police found nothing. No body. No blood. My friend's family had already decided it didn't happen. I was a _kid_ , some _messed-up deaf_ kid, what could I have said that would have made _anyone_ believe me?"

"But ... your mother! Castle, I don't know her like you do, but I can see clearly that she loves you. She knew something happened that weekend." Rick stared at her, eyes widening. "She told me when you were in the hospital. She knew, Castle, and she wanted to know more." He stared at her, reeling. _What?_ No. No. He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. I couldn't."

"But why?"

"Because I couldn't hear it - _him_!" he snapped in a sudden agony of frustration. There was a pressure building inside him suddenly, and his words came out in a strangled, raised pitch that he couldn't control. "I couldn't fucking hear him. He was threatening me, and I couldn't hear what he said. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what he was going to do! It - _he_ \- had our name, our phone number. It - _He_ could find us, Mother, whenever he wanted - it was up to me, I had to _do_ something. I had to protect us!"

"Castle- Ok, ok." Beckett spoke again, her expression an off mixture of frustration and something close to horrified. She rose from her seat, quickly setting the mug down on his desk. Her hands moved out in front of her. "Rick-" She grabbed his wrist as she neared him and he suddenly realized he had been jabbing himself in chest in emphasis as he spoke. They looked at one another.

"You don't believe me." He forced himself to lower his voice, to calm himself.

"Castle, that's not - " She let go of him, or he pulled away, he wasn't sure which.

"You don't."

" I believe that you- "

" - _believe it_?" Oh god. Don't let this have been a mistake.

"No!" she retorted, making him blink. "No. I was going to say that I believe you that you witnessed something terrible in those woods. I believe you." He stared at her, his gaze raking over her face, tearing into her expression and body language, putting together what he saw with unconcealed desperation to believe _her_. He frowned.

"But-" he prompted.

"No _buts_ , Castle." And yeah, she was telling the truth, he could see it now. He felt like crying.

"So, so you understand then? Why I couldn't tell anyone," he pushed her.

"I understand why you made the decision not to," she said, and he had to grant her that very diplomatic comment. Clearly, she did not agree with his decision to conceal all this from his friends and family or the authorities, cop that she was, but she _did_ understand the reason for it. That was more than he could really have hoped for right now. He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding in.

"Thank you." He nodded, accepting her qualified support. "But now," he went on, cautiously, "I think it's time to tell. I have to. It has to stop. For Alexis, for mother. It all has to stop. And I need your help. I have to solve this, I have to know what happened, and I have to fix it. But I can't do it without you."

"Without _us_ , Castle," Beckett replied. "You can't do it without us: me, yes, but Espo, Ryan, your friends at the 12th, and - your mother and Alexis."

"No. Beckett, not - "

"Castle, they already know."

"What?" Aghast, confused.

"Not the details, but they know. Your mother, Alexis. They might not know the details, but after the leak to the press about your hearing, after yesterday, they know _something_ is very wrong and it's eating them up. They are scared to death for you. You have to tell them, they can handle it, and it's better that you do it rather than leaving them to think the worst." She looked at him, reached out to take his hands in hers. "Castle, you have to tell them."

End chapter 17

Hope you liked it! Shoot me a review to let me know.

A/N: The next chapter is underway, but there will be a small delay because of treatment for my neck injury. I am hoping it will be only week or two before the next chapter appears.


	19. Chapter 18

A/N at the end.

Chapter 18

They were sitting in silence. The burgers and their coffees had gone cold long ago and were ignored on the desk. Since Castle had revealed what had happened to him in the woods he had spent most of the time sitting in his chair not speaking. It was eerie. Not like him at all. But then what was _like him_? It was possible he _was_ a lot quieter than she thought he was. It felt like there needed to be a question mark over everything. But right now, from by the introverted sweep of his gaze, he was anything but quiet on the inside; it was obvious he was calculating his next play, a move no doubt made all the more complicated now by the new knowledge that his family _knew something_. And very clearly, as evidenced by this protracted strategizing, he was still not open to the idea of simply telling them what had happened in the woods. She watched his brow grow heavy with some difficult, private thought. He looked utterly worn out and older than his years. And still he was silent.

But he wasn't the only one filled with a strange and preoccupied sort of silence.

She was still shocked with by what her partner had revealed. It was horrifying and close to unbearable. And that it had happened when he was a little boy, already staggering under the weight of his illness and hearing loss, made it all the more horrendous. In her time with the NYPD the suffering of the victims was always the hardest to absorb. Even worse than witnessing violent death as a trained professional, was standing alongside the innocents who had barely escaped that fate, or those left behind. Exposed to their grief and shock as lives were ripped away from them or as they were forced by circumstance to witness things that no person should ever be made to see, she felt wounded by it. Every time. But each time it also steeled her resolve: that she would do whatever she could to bring some small measure of comfort through her words and her promise to do anything and everything in her power to see justice served. She knew the pain of no answers, no justice, no peace, and it was unendurable _not_ to do whatever she could to spare others what she and her father suffered daily.

And here she was, exposed to this same sort of suffering again. In the one place she never thought she would find it.

She really had no idea...

Getting that story out had been an enormous step for her partner. He had _told_ someone, finally, but he was still clearly enmeshed within it. The rawness of his retelling, the paucity of his usual literary flourishes and a total inability to compartmentalize away the horror of what he was speaking about, was all evidence of that. Even now, as he sat slumped, thinking, he was no doubt continuing to so do within the horrific bloody dimensions of that trauma.

Still freshly wounded and bleeding after all these years. Caught like a fly in a spider's web.

Given all of that, it had been a gamble to push him to tell Martha and Alexis, but she felt she had to voice those words. As much as Castle was hurting, there were two other people being held hostage to the same trauma and suffering their own distress without even knowing why. They needed answers. They needed, no they _deserved_ , to know more. The man sitting across from her needed to tell them, and not just for their sake, because if what he remembered and had revealed to her was indeed the truth, there was a young woman out there lost in Hollander's Woods; there were people mourning her disappearance; and there was a murder, still unsolved. There was murderer not yet caught. And there was a traumatized witness who had been unable to speak out for nearly 30 years. A witness who had been on the run and hiding for so long he was going to need all the help they could give him not just to solve the case, but so he could start to recover.

To help Castle and his family, to find justice for that woman murdered in the forest, to catch the killer, she needed to start thinking as a Detective, not just as a ... She paused. What was she? Partner, colleague? Partner, yes, OK, Lanie was _right_ about that. But... Maybe, a friend?

Pushing aside that question, she forced her thoughts returned to his fraught confession, considering it as she would the cases she dealt with daily, the ones she swore to solve for the sake of those gone and those left behind. He had said he needed to solve this. He needed her help. So, as she had told him, she would give it. And swear to do everything in her power to help him unravel this mystery. But not yet. Now Castle evidently needed his silence. But she would keep watch, just in case he needed rousing from his thoughts. Like he had earlier. She recalled how he started to tell her his story and had seemed to slip away into his memories. The look on his face... Blank, but not like sleep, more like some sort of fugue. Dissociation, maybe? Like the raid, when he had taken a pounding from Baxter, but... this seemed worse somehow. She hoped it was as a result of the stress of voicing what had happened to him so long ago, and not something that ran deeper and bespoke an even greater wound than was already evident. It was something she would have to talk to Martha about. And Castle himself. But, right now it was time for her partner to take time to regroup and for her to be there if he needed her.

So, she continued to sit with her thoughts and let him work through his for as long as it took.

She knew he was worried - no that was an inadequate description - scared, terrified, that the murderer in the forest might surface and harm his family. That had been the driving force behind his every day, his every calculated move, since that night. Thinking as a cop, she could think of numerous reasons why that was unlikely to happen (if it had ever been likely to happen at all), and she had no doubt that somewhere along the way Castle had considered those possibilities, but he still had not been able to set aside his terror for reason. Not in over 20 years. And right now, he was too battered, too raw, to have that laundry list of rationality raised. That time would come. But not yet.

Kate returned to her coffee mug.

She sipped at the tepid coffee. The vanilla had been unexpected. He had caught her by surprise with that addition, and the thought that he had quietly stocked his cupboards with the ingredients of her favorite brew had left her floundering for a moment, even though she was still in the grip of horror over his first attempt to tell her his story. On any other day she might have suspected it factored into some sort of elaborate seduction plan or grand manipulation ploy, but since Baxter had turned everything upside down, she was re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about Richard Castle and the reasons why he did everything he did. Not that seduction attempts were off the table entirely: she knew where his thoughts went. Frequently. And, in her more unguarded moments, maybe he wasn't entirely alone in the direction of those thoughts. But now...

Her phone suddenly chirped.

 _Crap._

The screen glowed showing that it was Esposito calling. She couldn't ignore it. When she left the precinct today, it was with a direction to her team to continue to push Baxter, to keep on with the dig into Carmichael and his nefarious activities, while she took Castle's statement. Montgomery was still unhappy about her leaving the auditor to his own devices in the department yesterday. The Mayor's man had twiddled his thumbs for all of 30 minutes before evidently deciding that his 5pm deadline to get a report back to his boss couldn't be delayed another second. And so he had hunted for, and cornered, the Captain himself to get his answers. So when Kate returned later that day, despite her boss's understanding and his approval in broad strokes of why she had headed to Castle's loft, it was to a mightily irritated Captain and a stern direction to get the writer's statement as soon as possible and get something on Carmichael. Get him something he could give the Mayor. She couldn't annoy him a second time. So she took a deep breath. Right now, Castle was safe. Martha and Alexis were safe. But Carmichael was going to escape if they didn't get a break soon. And Carmichael _had_ to be brought down.

Knowing that didn't stop the guilt though. She looked back at her flashing cell.

O _f the all the worst timing._

"Castle?" She reached out to gently, fleetingly, to grasp his knee. He looked up at her and blinked owlishly at her raised cell phone. "I'm sorry. I have to take this."

"Ah yeah. Of course. Yeah." He sounded thrown by her interruption, but nodded gamely at her anyway, immediately jumping into his camouflage. She suddenly hated how he did that. Within seconds it was as though she had done nothing more than rouse him from a pleasant daydream. He just shrugged into that genial disguise like he was donning a well-worn coat. _Damn it._

"I'll take the call in here," she said. _I'm not leaving. And I am not buying the act._

"Beckett, Espo wouldn't be calling unless he had something he needed to tell you. It's fine," Castle said nodding, encouraging and comforting _her_ now. Flipping the tables effortlessly, his voice taking on that velvety rumble that was capable of gentling everybody within ear shot. "I'll just get rid of these burgers; Harry Xiao has really lost his touch. We need to order something in." She watched him start stacking the plates, ready to take them into the kitchen and dispose of the food.

Her cell buzzed again, drawing her attention back to Espo and reason for his call.

 _Damn._

She thumbed the cell as she rose from her chair, feeling the need to stand as she slipped back into work-mode. But as she stood she couldn't help reaching out to touch her partner again. This time to curl her hand around the broad curve of a shoulder, feeling his muscles shift as he took up the plates. She looked at him, pointedly: _are you sure?_ The corners of his lips curled upwards, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling, as he returned the look: _I'm sure. I'm ok._ She wasn't buying it, still, but if he was able to put up a front then he was still in control. And she had a job she could not ignore.

She had a job...

"Espo," she acknowledged, not moving from where she was standing, but letting her hand drop away from Castle, noticing how the heat from his body was slow to seep from her palm. She was rattled at how much she felt its loss as her skin cooled. This touching they were doing, that _she_ was doing, now that his hearing issues were out _,_ was new and still felt too intimate. Until the last few days, any touching between them was either inadvertent or for the job. Even Castle's irrepressible flirtations hadn't breached that unspoken barrier between them. He danced along its edges, pushed, baited and teased, but never actually _made_ contact. Even when he handed her a coffee, she suddenly realized, they did not touch. It wasn't part of _them_. Until now.

"Beckett, yo! How's Castle holding up?" Espo interrupted her thoughts as she watched Castle leave the room, plates in hand, their coffee mugs left on his desk.

"Castle -" she paused: what to say to that? That he was coping? Sure, he was doing that. Right now was doing what he always did: putting on show. Not really hiding, more deliberately staying within the safety of his public persona. They weren't that unalike in that regard, she thought ruefully, even if it was for different purposes. And they weren't so different in other ways either, she was realizing. That woman in the forest had been a stranger to her partner, but the same wrenching violence ending in death had touched both her and Castle intimately in their early years. And it had permanently rerouted them, wrenched them out of their lives as they knew them, and set them down new and much darker pathways. But, thank god it hadn't been his mother lost, and at that age. Apart from the horror and grief of that scenario, Castle had no father and she had never heard him mention any other relations that might have been close enough to take him in. There must be someone, but there was good chance that he would have ended up in state care.

At least, at 19, she was not in danger of that scenario, but at Castle's tender age he was precariously closer to being alone and helpless in the world than she had been. So it seemed he had taken his own action to protect his only parent. He had gone on the defensive, and had remained there, standing a lonely guard. For years. His reaction had been... extreme. He was eleven years old, newly without his full hearing, alone and scared and he had decided to watch over his mother and himself thinking he could protect them from a murderer. It was utterly ridiculous. It had not been the right choice. Not the one she was trained to think of as the correct course of action. And yet it was so utterly, guilelessly innocent and naive, so childishly noble and brave, that it almost hurt to think about. Her own reaction to losing her mother to violence had, her therapist had finally helped her accept, also been extreme - and ultimately less noble than it was destructive. She didn't have the defense of childish naiveté to fall back upon. Unable to stop herself hunting her mother's killer in her early career with the NYPD, she had strayed close to irreparable harm before someone had stepped in to help her.

She found herself wondering what might have happened had the horror in the woods happened when Castle had been 19 and grown, as she had been? What might he have been able to do about it that would have saved him from a lifetime of fear? He couldn't have followed her pathway into the police force, not with his hearing, but what might he have been able to do? But the reality was he hadn't been a man when it had happened. He had been a little boy... With no one to step in to help him; to stop him.

"Beckett?"

"Sorry, Espo. Yes, Castle. He's doing - ok."

"Good." Kate ran her fingers through her hair. Her eyes strayed to the office door as Espo went on. "I don't know how Castle puts up with shit like this without cracking heads. We've only had the press after us for a few days and I'm already thinking of going vigilante on their asses." Beckett grimaced. If only that were the extent of Castle's troubles. But that wasn't her story to tell and she wouldn't rob Castle of the little control he had over his life right now by telling it. That was for her partner to do, when he was ready.

"Espo. Carmichael?"

"Yeah, right. Not good news. Baxter still isn't saying a word. _Nada_. He's refused new counsel, but he's still not talking. And Carmichael is still coming up a blank."

"He's totally clean? Nothing at all? Nothing in his financials, his contacts? What about his lawyer?"

"No, Beckett: he's coming up _blank_. As in the guy doesn't seem to exist beyond a social security number - and that's not looking too legit, though we can't pin down anything solid yet. We've looked everywhere."

"Carmichael is an alias then."

"Looks like." There was a pause on the line. "Castle was right to pick him out like he did. It was a good call."

"Yes, it was," Kate answered, already thinking hard. His legal counsel had Carmichael out of the precinct before they could grill him, and they didn't have enough yet to compel him to return. Without Baxter's co-operation, it looked like they were going to lose hold on the man. She was in no doubt that Carmichael was not going to be around for much longer. If he wasn't already gone. "Is Ryan still on him?"

"Yeah. He checked in 20 minutes ago. Had eyes on the guy. So he's still in the City." Espo had read her mind, as he usually did.

"OK, keep on digging Espo. There has to be something. Where was he before arrived at the precinct? He must have come from somewhere. Someone must recognize him. Airport, car services, cab companies, did he stop somewhere for coffee? Clubs, bars, the usual. And how did he contact his lawyer? Someone must know him if he was called in to take control of Baxter. He didn't materialize out of thin air. What about the guys we brought in with Baxter?"

"One was D.O.A." Right yes, she remembered that now. (How could she forget that?) "And the other, guy, er, calling himself _Bingo_ ," Kate could feel Espo's eyebrows rising as reminded himself of the name," is scared as hell down in Holding. He's clammed up, quaking in his boots."

"But he's scared right? At least that's a reaction." It was more than the impassive Baxter was giving them. "Can you organize to have him brought back up to Interview first thing tomorrow." She looked at her watch. "I need some more time here, but I'll be back in before I head home."

"No problem. Hey, can you let Castle know we're thinking of him? What's happening, with the press, it - it ain't right."

"I will. Thanks Javier."

"No problem."

Kate thumbed the cell to terminate the call and breathed out. They were running out of time with this case. They had to dig harder. She pocketed her cell and headed back out into the loft to find her partner, and she found him in the kitchen staring at the espresso machine as it purred over a fresh batch of beans. He appeared lost in thought again. He had a lot to think about; they both did.

"Castle," she called as she approached, her voice louder than she would usually pitch it, but it wasn't until she was rounding the kitchen island that he looked up. His face was pinched again. He licked his lips.

"Beckett, I-" he started, drumming his fingers against the espresso machine, lips curling upwards into an expression he clearly didn't feel. She tensed, but at the last second Castle seemed to shy away from whatever was on his mind. "What did Espo say?" he asked instead. OK, she wouldn't push.

"Baxter is still not talking. And it looks like Carmichael is an alias. Apart from a suspect social security number, he's a ghost."

Castle nodded, "A fake I.D. for short term use only then. He must have expected to give Baxter his orders and disappear again." The writer paused, considering. His eyes sharpened as the lure of mystery took hold. "Someone hired him, or ordered him, to deliver this message _,_ though. The same people who were running Baxter."

"Yeah." Kate nodded. "Though that doesn't really help because we don't know who _they_ are." She paused, waiting to see if Castle would take the bait to provide her with a list of possible _they_ 's. He didn't. "What, no suggestions about who _they_ might be?"

Castle smiled ruefully and shrugged a shoulder. He drew in a breath and winced, keeping his gaze downcast again at the little machine in his hands. "Look, Beckett, about Mother and Alexis. I- " He stopped, then started again. "I - can't tell them."

"Castle-"

"I can't. I know you asked me to, and I understand why, but I just can't." He looked up at her, eyes intense. "Not yet."

"I know you want to keep on protecting them Castle, but you have to tell them something. Knowledge is what will protect them. Understanding."

"I know and I will. Just not - just not everything. Not right now. I- I just can't." He huffed out a breath. "We can work it. You, me, the boys. We can work it without bringing Mother and Alexis any further into it. We can." _Please, Beckett._

"All right," she acquiesced. For now. "I think you need to, but you have to be the one to make that decision."

"Thank you," he looked visibly relieved, shoulders drooping. "There's something else," he paused, "and I know there isn't enough to justify it officially, -" Castle's gaze left her suddenly, darting to the stairs and then upwards, before returning to her," and I could hire private security, but-"

"You're worried about the safety of the loft."

"Not the loft: what's in it," Castle said, eyes flicking upwards momentarily. "I've done everything I can to deal with what might _happen_ , but right now I -"

"It's fine Castle, I'll talk to the uniforms on the door again. They won't let anyone in who isn't a resident."

"Thank you. Mother won't accept a bodyguard. I've tried. But I think I could get Alexis to accept-"

"Castle," Beckett interrupted, "how are you going to persuade your daughter to accept a bodyguard if you don't tell her what's going on?"

"I'm her father, she'll-"

"Freak out. Ask more questions. Refuse it. Try to investigate -"

"She's my daughter!"

"Exactly, Castle-"

"Fine. I'll tell her there've been some threats."

"You'll lie to her?"

"I won't be lying."

"Castle? What threats?"

"It's nothing I can't handle _,_ Beckett. The usual crackpots, trolling for a reaction." He licked his lips. "Not _it_ \- him - the killer. None of it has mentioned - that - back - "

"Have you read it all to know that?" Kate demanded, horrified and angry at this new revelation.

"What do you think I have been doing all day?" he snapped back. Anger bristled from him, irrational and hot. In reaction, she drew a rein on her own outrage and horror and took a breath.

"Look, I don't need to tell you that the likelihood of the man you saw back then contacting you now is incredibly small. Apart from the span of years, he could be dead or already in custody for something else or too old to do anything. He might not yet even know about what has happened." She went for the kill. "He might even have _forgotten_ about you right after you ran all those years ago, you must have considered that. But still... it should be looked at. I'll organize with the Captain-"

"No!" Castle snapped. "He'll want to know why."

"Castle-" she started, but stopped again when she registered the utterly implacable look in his eye. "It's enough that you have been threatened for us to look into it."

"But it's possible that _he_ might send me a message, and then -"

"Well, then if he does, the resources will be made available immediately to protect you and your family Castle." She frowned at him. He wasn't thinking clearly at all. He was still viewing this through the prism of fear that he had been living in for decades. Still desperate to remain hidden. Struggling to keep what control he had. And the desperate habit of it all was blunting his usual sharp sense of reason. "Look, at least let us look at the mail you have received. If something turns up, I'll talk to you first."

He considered her words, then: "OK. OK. You'll talk to me first?"

"You have my word." She nodded at him as he raked his gaze over her, eyes sharp. He drew in a breath then, and nodded.

"I'll turn everything over to you. Gina can help with that. Tomorrow." He swallowed. "The coffee is almost ready. I -I think I want to do the statement now. About Baxter. I need a little time to not think. About. _It_."

"Sure," she nodded, knowing that for the rest of the night it was all he was going to be thinking about. He was obsessive when a thought took his attention. Another thing they shared in common. "I'll fetch the coffee cups. We can talk in your office."

She took his statement with as little fanfare or extraneous chit chat as she could manage. Castle was looking increasingly ragged, and she was sure he was supposed to take some of those pain pills of his and lie down, but he was being stubborn and hanging on until the end. No complaining. No whining. No suggestive requests for some nursing. It was unsettling.

Out of sheer habit, she was expecting him to become the 12 year old he loved to embody when he was in a mood to rile or get some extra attention, or maybe hide from too much attention.

 _Wait._

"Castle," she began carefully. "Come with me." She rose from her chair by the desk and held out her hand. He didn't move, but looked at her with curiosity dulled by fatigue. His eyes narrowed. "I have something to show you."

"Ookay." He drew the word out as he accepted her hand. His thick fingers curled around hers, warm and solid and she gently hauled him up out of the chair, mindful of his bruised knuckles. She looked up and saw that there was a tiny bemused smile on his lips, as he puzzled over her sudden act of mystery. He never could resist the lure of the unknown and went with her willingly as she tugged him forwards.

"We're going into my _bed_ room? Uh... Um...Beckett... This is not..."

"Hush!" she admonished, and ended up dragging him into the room and not stopping until they were both in front of the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door of his walk-in closet. She pushed him again until he was right in front of it, and peered around his arm to meet his gaze in the glass.

"Ookay, Beckett. You have my attention. What are we doing in here?" he asked, voice nervous under a thin veneer of bravado. "I've had dreams that started like this -"

"Castle, don't start. Now, look: what do you see?"

"Looking," he said after a moment, and shrugged. She could feel him start to tense up, nerves kicking in. He wasn't sure where this was going anymore, but she hadn't reacted to his smirk or throwaway line and that had clearly rattled him. "I see... Me, you. My bedroom. Uh, what do you -?"

"I see _you_ , Castle."

"Huh?"

"Do _you_?"

"I'm hard of hearing Beckett, not needing glasses!" he retorted. She ignored the tone.

"You are not eleven anymore _,_ Castle."

"I - Oh, I see. Beckett..." her partner managed to sound bemused and irritated at the same time. He shook his head: "I know that."

"No, I don't think you really do, Castle," she countered, feeling her own tension rise as she decided to put it all out there. " You've done a remarkable, incredible thing to survive, to protect your family, and thrive like you have. Despite everything that was thrown at you, here you are: healthy, strong, successful, and wealthy, with a family who loves you, friends... And not all that disagreeable to look at. And yes, I will still shoot you if you repeat that to anyone."

"Beckett-" He colored faintly at her words. She pushed on, ignoring his interruption for fear her own nerves would fail.

"You want to take on this murderer and solve what happened in the woods?" she asked, "well, so do I. And I am so honored and humbled, Castle, that you trusted me and opened up to me; asked me to help you. I won't let you down, and I won't let your family down. And I swear to you that if there is a way to catch this guy and put him away, I will find it. _We_ will find it."

He was staring at her through the mirror, expression unreadable.

"But first you have to realize, you have to know, in here," she tapped his chest with a finger, pressed her hand over his heart, "that the time for defensiveness is over. You don't have to be the one who is hunted anymore. You don't have to play by his rules anymore. You don't have to hide. Anything. From anyone. Not anymore." She looked at him and held his gaze tight. "You aren't a little boy anymore, Castle.

"And you aren't alone."

He didn't speak. Didn't move. They stared at one another. She could feel his heart racing under her hand. He tried to speak, lips moving. Then stopped.

"I'm not asking you to say anything _,_ Rick," she said after a moment. "I meant what I said, and I am just asking you to think on it. I'm asking you to really think on it."

"Okay," he nodded. He sounded quiet, in a way that he shouldn't. Or in a way that she wasn't used to, perhaps was more accurate. And he looked shell-shocked with exhaustion. The fine laugh lines around his eyes were creased with it.

"But not now. I think, if I remember rightly, your Dr Bloom wanted you to rest. You have some pills you are supposed to take?" Her words seemed to rouse him and he shook his head.

"Don't need them." His voice was rough. "It's fine Beckett. I'll just sleep."

"Relax, Castle, I won't stay around to witness the dopey fall out." She patted his chest, then suddenly realized how intimate their contact was, and pulled her hand away. Her own nerves flared. She swallowed, and pushed on, putting a lightness into her tone that she did not feel. Scuttling for some distance. "What did you do to that poor man anyway?"

" _Poor man_?" Castle retorted, following her rapidly back onto the firmer ground of their usual banter. "Poor man? Seriously, Beckett? Dr Bloom does not need anyone's sympathy."

"But what did you _do_ to him? He was pretty clear that you did something to him - under the influence." She watched a spark come back into his eyes. His lips twitched with memory, trying to curl upwards despite his best efforts not to grin.

"I may have called someone. On his behalf."

"And -? Come on Castle, don't make me hurt you!"

"And maybe, just maybe, that person specializes in certain techniques in the area of relaxation."

"You called a _prostitute_? Castle!"

"Not a prostitute. A - a masseuse." He bit his lip, the nervous tension of the last few hours coming out in a grin that was rapidly becoming uncontrollable.

"Oh my god, you did: you hired him a _prostitute_."

"I was stoned. He seemed really uptight. One thing led to another..."

"He was right, you need to give me your cell phone before you take those pills."

"I'm not taking them Beckett." He sobered as he spoke.

"Castle."

"No. They make me say things. Do things. Not just to Dr Bloom." Oh, it clicked: he was talking about yesterday and his drugged ramblings. "It's not something I want to discuss. I really don't want to take them, but it will be ok, I'll just sleep. Right now I think I could sleep through the impact that killed the dinosaurs."

"It's up to you _,_ Castle. Do you want me to stay for a bit longer?"

"No." He said. "No. It's ok. I'm just going to sleep, I think." He paused, and before she could react Castle spun around where he stood _,_ and she was engulfed in a huge hug. Smothered might be a better word. His cologne was suddenly all around her, the warm scent unavoidable, its effects undeniable. "Thank you, Kate." She felt the heat of his breath in her ear, the rumble of his words in his chest. "Thank you." She hesitated, then slid her arms around his back and returned the embrace.

End Chapter

A/N: Thank you to my awesome beta, ebfiddler, without whom this story would be so much less than it is. Thank you for your continued support.

Thank you to all who are continuing to follow this story. Leave a review to let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

A/N at end of chapter.

The city Rick had always called home had never in his recollection achieved anything remotely resembling a darkness worthy of being called 'night'. He knew that this was supposed to be a bad thing for all sorts of biological and psychological reasons, but he was grateful for it. There had only been one truly dark night in his life, and considering the hell that that forested nightmare had become, he had never been keen to experience another. Now, as he stood alone at the witching hour, he felt his usual relief rise at the sight of his city through the window with its amber orange sky-glow backlighting familiar mesa-like mountain ranges of buildings. The details of the buildings were smudged with darkness, but their light-pricked edifices were a reassurance of _life_ , of the continuing act of living going on within each tiny lit window. It was a reminder that there were people all around him; that others were awake like him, living like him, going about their existence mere meters away. A reminder that he wasn't alone, in the dark.

He was thankful for his living city again tonight, because sleep was impossible and no words would come to banish that hated flashing cursor on his laptop screen. He felt like one giant mass of contusions ( _still a_ _great word_ ), and his muscles had stiffened painfully around each one of those hurts. Not just stiffened really, but cramped. Pinching and aching. It was too hard to ignore even when he had tried to force himself to do just that in bed earlier. After twenty minutes of breathing slowly, and fighting with himself to let go of the day, he gave up. He just couldn't relax. At least, not without cracking open those orange pill bottles with their tongue loosening, mind-melting, treacherous meds that would take away his physical pain and replace it with something much much worse. No. It was no good being well-rested if he had to trade his silence for it.

He looked down into his own street. There were cars down there. Cabs. A bus. People out walking, talking. _What were they talking about? The weather? A movie they just saw? The secret whispers of lovers? Something much darker?_ He resisted the urge to open the window. A memory of Alexis complaining about his night watching surfaced. She had found him one evening with windows flung wide as he mulled over his cityscape and watched a distant column of smoke churn and writhe as it rose towards luminous clouds. According to his daughter the backed up traffic, the horns and sirens did not _add colour to the night,_ but were as irritating as buzzing mosquitoes and it was ruining her sleep. She pouted at him, puffy-eyed and adorably sleep rumpled in that little girl way he rarely saw anymore, with her arms crossed over her chest. As he looked at her he suddenly realised, with an unexpectedly sharp stab of loss, that he couldn't remember what mosquitoes sounded like. Or flies. Or bees. Those sounds had somehow fallen out of his memory without his noticing or feeling their loss. Mother had joined them long enough to concur with her granddaughter that flying insects, and the noise coming in through the open windows, were indeed both incompatible with proper rest.

 _Close the window, Richard! It's 3am. For goodness sake, let the fire brigade do their work without an audience._

He had acquiesced, closed the window, and then retrieved his notepad from his bedside table and pestered both his mother and daughter to provide a detailed description of the sounds of buzzing insects until they had begged him to reopen the windows.

These days he kept the windows closed when his family was home.

He sighed, feeling the tiresome tug of pain around his ribs.

He could try meditation again, he supposed. Though he had never really succeeded with it. He had never been able to master any practice that required a calm and focussed mind. It was as if, just by thinking of serenity his brain immediately protested and fired scattered shots of ideas at him until he was tangled in bright sparking words and vivid images. An old girlfriend had brought him into her yoga class once, and after five minutes of silence he had apparently (though he couldn't remember it) shouted: _yes, in the throat with an axe!_ His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend had not appreciated his moment of epiphany. Neither had the instructor. Nor the rest of the class. Though to be fair, it had not been a conscious act that he had slipped from focussing on his breathing, and plummeted straight into an awkward Storm scene that had been plaguing him for weeks. He figured he just wasn't built for the quiet of Emptiness. He was too full of words. Too full of the urge to create, to understand, to unravel and investigate. He felt his mind was not entirely his own most of the time anyway, and Derek Storm and all the others that lived and lurked within him, seemed to object to being deliberately silenced.

He probably should drop any notion of trying to stop himself from thinking. This was the first night since the fight with Baxter that he was somewhere near lucid, and since both sleep and his words had deserted him, he was left with these hours of quiet. And he should use them. So much had happened in the last few days, it didn't feel real and he desperately needed a moment to process it all, work it over in his mind and acknowledge it beyond just accepting the emergency response it had triggered. His thoughts immediately turned to his confession to Beckett. That she had listened and believed him was still so hard to accept as a fact. He had never thought he would ever speak those words to a willing ear, and certainly he had never thought anyone would react to them like Beckett. In the rare moments he had entertained the idea of _telling_ , he had not considered that his words would not just be believed, but would give impetus to the possibility of _help_. Beckett had put the idea in his head that it could all end by his hand. Rick had never conceived going on the offensive. All of his plans were at best defensive: to protect, shield, shelter and hide. _Were those childish ideas? Was he really stuck in a child-like state of mind like Beckett had suggested?_ He had always felt hunted. He had never considered becoming the _hunter_. He had never thought he would have a partner in that hunt.

The idea was terrifying.

But it was also exhilarating. Like suddenly glimpsing that tiny spot of light at the end of a long dark tunnel. A tunnel haunted by some unseen monster that slavered for the taste of human flesh. He wanted to drop everything and sprint towards that light, and throw himself back out into its promise of safety. But at the same time, there was the monster to consider. If he ran at the wrong time, if he left it too late or too early, it might take him before he got there...

A familiar hand suddenly pressed into his arm as a brightly coloured ghostly reflection overlaid itself upon the window pane. Mother.

"Penny for them?" she asked when he looked away from her image and down at the lady herself. She was dressed in a light green vintage style Hollywood Starlet- silk robe. Hair still coifed, perfume bomb still detonating, but fading now which meant she hadn't added anymore fuel to that scented fire. _Wonder what that means?_ But she looked elegant. Glamorous. He recognized the robe as one she had bought after her first real stage success, before he was born. She had kept it, for superstitious reasons, as a good luck charm for the night before an audition. Its appearance now reminded him that she was off to the Theatre District tomorrow for just that purpose. He felt his stomach knot.

"Not worth a penny. Just thinking. Nothing important," he told her.

"I doubt that. After the week you've had kiddo, I sincerely doubt that." She turned away from him for a moment in a swirl of pale emerald, returning with a glass. "Here." She pushed it at him, waited until he took it, then retrieved her own. He looked down, noting the quantity of what was undoubtedly scotch. "Down the hatch, darling," and she paused, for effect he was sure, "no one should drink alone." He grinned slightly at that, recognizing the old line and feeling the warm weight of mostly sweet memories carried within it, and he responded as schooled:

"Good thing you aren't alone then." They clinked glasses and he took a sip as she did, feeling the smooth burn all the way to his stomach. This wasn't just scotch. This was his _best_ scotch. He frowned.

"Yes, yes, I know this is your special stash, but if the last few days doesn't warrant the good stuff, I don't know what would." He hummed a little in response, realising that she was right. "Darling, are you sure you shouldn't have just taken that medication to help you rest?"

"No."

"Richard, you are stubborn. Always have been -"

"I'm ok, Mother." He saw her glower at him, lips pursed, and he relented in his bluntness. "OK, I'm not ok as such but - I have - a lot to think about."

"About those ghastly threats?" she prompted. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. That less than half truth that he had spun for his mother and daughter, the one that could partially explain his recent behaviour, was still fresh in the air. Not hours earlier he had sat his family down and told them about the threats coming in through all the possible channels the public had to reach him. About how Kate and the Twelfth would, come morning, have all the evidence sent to them and would start to sort out real from fantastical threats, and take the appropriate action. He had asked for more time, for Alexis to stay close, for his mother to take this seriously.

Alexis had called him on it immediately. He was proud of her. And annoyed. And guilty.

 _That's not all of it Dad. There's more to tell._

 _No, that's not all of it. But right now it's all I can give you. Can you trust me just a little longer pumpkin?_

 _Dad... You know I do , and I will. Just... You will tell me everything right? Everything? And not sugar coat it, or try to protect me. I am not a little girl anymore._

 _You will always be that way to me._

 _Dad..._

 _Ok. Ok. When the time comes, I will tell you as much as a father can tell the child he loves more than life itself. And yes, even when you look at me like that, I promise I will not change my mind. You have my word that I will tell you that much, and no less._

"Threats, yes." He paused; sipped from his glass. The alcohol was a long warm vein running through his body feeding into muscles that already did not feel quite so tight. He blinked. His mother nudged him, and he realised she had spoken and he had missed it.

"Alexis was right though, wasn't she? These threats aren't the whole story. Not by a long shot." Rick regarded his mother and thought: Beckett was right, they know more than I thought they did. Maybe they always have.

"Mother..." He admonished, but couldn't seem to find it in himself to deny it any longer, and the words died on his tongue.

"Richard," she said and shook her head, looking suddenly less the carefree starlet and more the imploring mother, pleading with her recalcitrant child. Not too far off the mark, he thought guiltily. "Did you at least talk to Katherine about it all this afternoon? You seemed... lighter, after she visited." She paused. "She's good people, that one."

Rick swallowed. Yes. Beckett was that. And so much more. A memory of her in his arms just this very day came to him. He had been impulsive (but wasn't he always?); that hug had been a spur of the moment act. He just _needed_ it. So he reached out and grabbed, hanging on to her like the lifeline he suddenly felt she was, and almost panicked when he realized just what he had done. This was Beckett. This was him. They didn't _hug_. Even their brief touches were so new they were almost too intense; each one still felt like a notable event. So when he felt her freeze tonight he took that as a sign that he really had messed up, and he froze himself, not knowing what to do about it, how to salvage the situation. But then she hugged him back. _Oh my god._ He thought his heart would burst out of his chest. She hugged him _back_. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her: all long slender lines, and soft waves of hair against his cheek. He was sure there was still a hint of cherries in the air... " _*something* *something*_ Richard?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you talk to her? About the rest of it."

"Yes." He breathed out the word. His mother deserved to know that much. It was the most he had ever admitted to on the subject, and that one word refused to leave his lips except as a pathetic whisper. He cleared his throat, annoyed and tried again. "Yes, I did."

"And?" his mother persisted, eyes sharp and tone insistent. She was not going to let this lie. Shit. She deserved to know more, to be reassured further, but the weight of years of silence was heavy. He really did not want to have this conversation. He wanted to look out over his city and work through things in peace. Impetuously, Rick raised his glass and downed the scotch that remained. He coughed as the rush of so much alcohol burned on its way down.

"And, I can't... I can't discuss it right now," he said.

"But it helped?"

"Yes, it did," he nodded. And it had. He still couldn't quite grasp the full reach of it, but yes, he felt better than he had in years, come to think of it. But also probably more terrified. Beckett had given him the gift of her belief in him, yes, but she had also put an invitation out there to turn the tables on _him_ (he had to get used to that pronoun): the killer, the murderer. And an invitation that they do it _together_.

"Good!" He blinked at the snap in his mother's declaration.

"Good?"

"Yes, _good_. You have needed to talk to someone for years, Richard. And it's _good_ that the someone you chose is the calibre of your Detective Beckett." She leaned into him suddenly, curling her arm through his, hugging him close. "You know I have always considered your many failures with the fairer sex -" she waited for him to work through his splutter -" to be something baffling and incurable, but I am very happy to be proved wrong! At last. Katherine Beckett is a remarkable young woman. Classy. Smart. Talented. She'll go far. But more than that, she is kind, kiddo, and honest. All in all, a rare and precious combination." She patted the back of his hand and took a swig from her glass. "I see there is hope for you yet." And she came up, and he automatically leaned down, to receive a light smack of her lips against his cheek.

"Now," the starlet was back in the saddle, "I must away to bed. I have a big day tomorrow, and I can't show up with bags under my eyes, looking like I am 200 years old."

"Don't forget I am taking you to that audition," Rick told her.

"Not unless you get some sleep darling. The meeting is at 9:30 sharp! One cannot be fashionably late to an audition."

"You won't be."

"Ta ta, Richard. Don't stay up too late."

"I won't Mother." Rick watched her swirl away up the stairs, unfinished scotch still in hand. He looked down at his own glass, empty now, and felt the weight of it in his hand. His body was finally very tired, the alcohol had loosened knots and relaxed cramps. His mother was sneaky. He supposed he should be used to having her pull fast ones on him, but getting him to drink that scotch had relaxed him and numbed the sharp edges of his mind. When he returned to bed this time, in the few moments before the scotch completed its underhanded plan to knock him out, his thoughts turned to Beckett. He wondered what she was doing tonight. However much he might wish some fun for her, or some good sleep, he felt he knew her well enough to know that it was unlikely. There were too many loose threads, too many unsolved mysteries, right now. His own revelations notwithstanding, there was still the issue of Carmichael. And Baxter. Rick yawned. They were so alike in some ways: neither one of them could rest with a problem still to solve. He smiled at the thought. His last lucid moments were spent thinking that there was something they were both missing with Baxter. Something that was dangling right in front of their noses, but they couldn't see it. He needed to think on it. Just let his mind drift over the problem and -

He slept.

End of chapter

A/N A shortish chapter this time. And a quieter one than normal I think. Thank you once again to the amazing ebfiddler for all her hard work and support. Any remaining issues/grammar/spelling with this chapter is all on me. Hope you like it.

Back to the action again next chapter - Castle and Beckett have his revelation to deal with, but also the Carmichael and Baxter still to deal with.


	21. Chapter 20

Quick A/N: I know I said the action would be back this chapter, but it didn't quite make it. But the next chapter is well underway and it is absolutely back on the case at the 12th.

As always, thank you ebfiddler, beat extraordinaire! This shortish story has turned into a bit of a marathon. I so appreciate you sticking with me - coming into the home straight now.

On with the chapter.

V

V

V

V

Rick tugged on the front door to the loft one more time. Just for luck. Not to check that the door was locked. Again. Not for the fifth time. No. Because he knew it was locked, as were the windows. And the security system was engaged. He knew because he had checked it all. More than a few times.

"R -ard, darl -" Behind him in the hallway, his mother was calling for him. Instinctively, he hunched his shoulders, feeling an admonishment coming over his fussing with the door. But he couldn't help it. This was the first time he was leaving Alexis alone in the loft since his Achilles heel was revealed to the world, and despite Beckett's sensible logic that it was unlikely that it - _he_ \- would return now, Rick couldn't (wouldn't) take that gamble with his only child's safety; with her _life_. A flash of that pale mask and the cold dead skin under his young fingers flickered along the edges of his memory. Rick tugged on the door again. His mother's hand landed on his as he did so, and she appeared by his side. He looked down, habit driving him to brace for that chastisement for allegations of obsessive compulsive behavior. "Alexis will be fine. She has to study. And the best of the best would have better luck breaking into Fort Knox than our home - you have seen to that. Amply." Rick blinked at her words, surprised by her understanding though he knew he really shouldn't be. Another thing to feel guilty about.

"I know, it's just -" he drew in a breath. He had to get a grip. He let the weight of his mother's hand pull his from the door handle. "Yeah. She will be fine. Fine."

"Of course she will. And there are guards on the building and Eduardo in the lobby."

"I know," he repeated himself, hanging onto her words as he followed her to the elevator. They were the truth. No one was getting in here who wasn't known and safe. Gina (after they had buried the hatchet, mostly by pretending that fight had never happened - as was their long-time bad habit) had sent the threatening emails, posts and letters to the Twelfth this morning. A short time later, Beckett had sent him a brief text acknowledging it and letting him know that the Captain had used those provocative messages to justify the continuing presence of the uniforms guarding the front entrance to his building. He was so grateful and he _must_ remember to keep the men and women on that door supplied with free quality coffee and pastries - he knew more than a few friendly vendors that could be trusted to deliver and he texted one of them as they wandered the few steps to the elevator. So, between himself and Beckett, the apartment building was secure. And he was glad his mother was not trying to talk him out of escorting her, like she had yesterday. At least he could be as sure as possible that both of them were safer this way. His mother taking a car service to the doctor was one thing, a known quantity, but having her taking off across the city to meet with someone he had never met in a tiny new experimental theater... No. Just no.

This way was safer.

And the thing in the forest was a _he_ , not an _it_.

 _He_ , not _it_.

Another of Beckett's gifts: that pronoun. _He._ It changed everything. He hadn't realized just how much that simple little two letter word _mattered_. But it did. Oh, it did. It wasn't like he had consciously been preparing to do battle with a ghoul or some sort of devilish creature, he didn't think he'd been that far gone. Really. Though until Beckett had exposed his self-protective use of that impersonal pronoun, maybe part of him had been. But, there was no otherworldly creature, deserving to be called _it_ , that was capable of climbing sheer apartment walls to smash in the windows; no _thing_ was going to appear in a puff of smoke inside his locked fortress. And no _he_ was capable of such things - which meant his earthly defenses were good and solid and about as impenetrable as a home could be. So, despite the anxiety that just would not quit, despite the tiny tiny part of his mind that still screamed at him that _it_ was still correct, he had to hang on to this new word. Because Beckett had given it to him. And because it was the truth.

He was sure.

Mostly.

He drew in a calming breath.

The elevator light flashed at him as he thumbed the little button, and he saw it was travelling up from the lobby. That was good. It gave him time to do _this_ : he pulled out his cell again and tapped out a message.

 _RC: "Dammit, man! I'm a doctor, -"_

Rick waited for the response to his prompt. There was only one correct answer. Alexis knew it. So did he. If she didn't respond, or if she did not send him the correct response, then he would know she needed him. A heartbeat later he got his daughter's response:

 _AC: It's been 30 seconds Dad!_

RC: " _Dammit, man! I'm a doctor,-"_

 _AC:_ _ **"- not a physicist" Dr McCoy, Star Trek**_ _._

 _RC: Good. Did you delete these texts?_

 _AC: Yes Dad! Everything is ok. I am ok._ _ **Go**_ _! XX_

The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the tight space. Once there, his mother looped her arm through his and squeezed the limb into her side. Reassurance. Motherly attention. He felt chastened by it, even as he appreciated it. He knew he had tied up the loft in so many layers of security it was almost impossible to penetrate, but at the same time his unease would not abate. Making his family worry, making them fearful, was never part of the plan. It was the antithesis of everything he had worked for. His mother should not be looking after him, it should be the other way around. The thought came in hot on a wave of determination, tinged with fear; Beckett was right, something had to be done to end this. Rick reached around to squeeze his mother's hand where it rested over his forearm.

The elevator lowered them to the lobby and the doors jerked a little as they opened. Eduardo was waiting to greet them as they exited. As always. Rick smiled as he saw the familiar face, the uniform. He took in the deepened lines in the older man's face, the slightly discolored wet patch on the lapel of his jacket, and the aroma of strong coffee. The doorman had arrived well before his usual shift began it seemed. Long enough for fatigue to set in and so to require, and then spill, a strong black coffee. Given that Eduardo did not like coffee, it was a telling sign. Rick knew the man felt his responsibility to his building, and the residents, keenly, but right now he was clearly pulling extra shifts to keep both safe and well.

"Good morning, Mr Castle," Eduardo started, and Rick made his reply before the doorman turned his gaze towards the lady on Rick's arm, "Ms Rogers. Might I say you are looking particularly lovely this morning, Madam?" The doorman made the compliment with a smile, and in just the right way to take decades from his mother's face, bringing her out in a flourish of girlish delight.

"Ah kind sir, and good morning to you. I have an audition with a new playwright and Richard has been so kind as to escort me."

"How wonderful Ms Rogers, I am sure you will dazzle as always. But, are you able to do this, Mr Castle? With your injuries?" The doorman frowned.

"It's fine," Castle said, in his most reassuring voice. "We'll only be gone for a short time, and I don't want mother running the gauntlet alone this morning. Not with such an important audition."

"No, no, of course not." Eduardo nodded. "Well, then we shall use the back entrance to avoid the vultures that are still waiting outside." Rick looked over the man's shoulder, glimpsing a group of paparazzi on the sidewalk lounging around the doors, fiddling with their gear. One was smoking. There were less there than earlier, thank god, but more than he would like to deal with right now. Eduardo went on: "I will have the car service move around the block to meet you. It will have to wait for you down from the alley way to keep the location of the access from prying eyes. The vultures know you came into the building through another entrance the other day, but they have not found it yet. And I will keep my eye on your lovely daughter. Is this to your liking?"

"Eduardo, you are a wonder." Rick's mother reached out impulsively, grasping the man by the upper arms and beaming. "What would we do without you?" She released him as he stepped back and held out his hand to indicate they should move around to the rear of the lobby. As she did so, Rick stepped forward and laid his hand over the doorman's shoulder.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely, seriously. "I don't know what we would have done without your help these last few days. All these years really." Rick reached into his coat and pulled out a white envelope. He pressed it into Eduardo's hand. The older man made to refuse and Rick shook his head. "Please, accept this with my thanks. It's not much, considering all you are doing for my family, for me, but please allow me this small gesture of gratitude."

"Very well, Mr Castle, but you know that I take care of all my residents, and this building in just the same way." He protested, deflecting and downplaying his part. "It is my job."

Rick patted the man's shoulder, not put off in the least. "To some people, it would be a job Eduardo, but what you do for us, for the building, is far above and beyond a mere _job_ ," he said. "Hope you like it. Best seats in the house I am told." At that, Eduardo's eyebrows rose upwards, eyes widening.

"You didn't!"

"Oh, didn't I?" Rick grinned. The pull of the bruises barely registering with the happiness that only giving joy to another could bring.

"My wife will be over the moon." Eduardo looked down at the envelope with new pleasure.

"Good! Now, I must get Mother to her audition, or I will never hear the end of it."

CASTLECASTLECASTLE

Mohammad, his usual driver, was back from leave and Rick was appreciative, though he still scuttled them rapidly past the causes of his injuries, and gave the official and vague line about why he had hidden his hearing - promising himself silently that he would make up to the driver for the lie when the time was right. Then it was back into trading the usual pleasantries, and sharing commiserations on the pointier aspects of living with teenage daughters in The Big Apple as they drove to the Theater District.

As the car worked its way through heavy traffic and ascended the numbered rungs of streets he had known and loved since childhood, Rick was brought into the heart of very familiar territory. He watched beloved landmarks slide by his window: theaters he had haunted as a boy as his mother performed , the cafes and bars he grew to know as the years passed, the street vendors amongst the crowds of pedestrians, the entrance to a narrow alley way where he had experienced his first real kiss (god, he had been so nervous he almost missed her mouth), his favorite magic shop with the live shows at 2pm every Saturday, and always, the towering backdrop to his life: the electric brilliance of those billboards that soared high above it all. Rick touched the car's window. He fancied he could feel the vivid beating, living thrum of the City even through the glass. And he found himself falling in love with the place all over again. Through all the memories, the familiarity, he felt he was re-experiencing his City as if it was his first time here - and in a sense it was he supposed: the first time _all_ of him was here and openly so, damaged ears and all. This _was_ his City, he thought suddenly. This was where he belonged. As much as his mother lived and breathed New York, it was his oxygen too and he needed it. He never wanted to leave it. He never wanted to be driven from its streets again.

The vehicle glided to a halt at the curb, and Rick and his mother exited a little shy of the theater as was his mother's habit when auditioning. _Arriving like a chauffeured diva is for_ after _opening night, Richard_. Rick stayed close as they worked their way through the foot traffic flowing like a clichéd river along the side walk. His mother led him directly to the polished window of a nearby bakery for another of her many, many superstitious theater-oriented habits: the final preen. As she checked her reflection, Rick took up a position behind her, pulled out his cell and typed:

RC: _"_ **_Autobots!_** _-"_

He waited impatiently for Alexis to reply, tapping his foot to release the frisson of anxiety that suddenly prickled his skin, taking some of the buzz from his warm reflections in the car. He took a breath and watched his mother checking her look, then turned his attention to scanning the street for anything that might hint at danger: a face turned their way for too long, a vehicle curb crawling or returning to roll past again, the flash of a camera lens or something more sinister. Anything. Even the dark flicker of a menacing black cloak lurking in the recesses of buildings or the mouths of streets and alleyways that were visible from his vantage point. As he sought out the entrance of each intersecting street, through the hustle and flurry of brightly colored pedestrians and vehicles, searching for something out of place, he suddenly began to recognize in himself the feeling that maybe the shrouded murderer from the forest was unlikely to appear in that cloak in broad daylight in a busy New York street - even in the Theater District where costumes were not that unusual. It didn't hurt to check, but... He stopped fidgeting as he realized where his thoughts had taken him. He had never weighed up the _possibility_ of seeing that cloaked figure lurking in the street before. Before, he was simply on alert for it, making it his priority. And he would have been unable to rest because of it. But just now...

No one could ever accuse him of being possessed with an over abundance of common sense, of rationality or somber logic, but somehow in the course of a single evening one person had managed to do what scores of aggravated teachers and concerned family, an ex-wife and even his daughter had been unable to achieve: _persuading him to_ _prioritize logic above a good story_. Detective Kate Beckett and her mystery-solving, canny Detective reasoning had somehow reorganized his thoughts for him! It _was_ unlikely that the murderer would come at him, attack his mother, in full sinister get-up in the open street. It was possible (and that thought still made him tighten up inside, the old fear still a real and living thing not easily dislodged or disregarded, even now), but the odds were small. If the man wanted to shut him up, take him out **and** continue to preserve his anonymity, he wasn't going to be waving a dagger dressed like Death in his hooded cloak while crowds gathered and pulled out their cell phones to put it all online. It wasn't the sort of behavior that would fit with the murderer that had stayed hidden for decades - even if he felt his cover might be blown. It just didn't fit, he realized. It didn't fit any mystery story worthy of the name. He would never use such a clumsy device in his own writings.

Well, that was just confounding: gloriously and mystifyingly astounding. How did she _do_ that to him?

"Oh!" His mother had swirled back into his line of sight. "I simply must insist you take a penny for the thoughts that put that smile back on your face darling!"

His cell beeped, interrupting his reply to his mother:

AC: **_" -Transform and rollout!" Optimus Prime - Transformers._** _And don't you ever tell anyone I know that one, Dad._

He smiled more broadly.

"Just musing on life's twists and turns and light bulb moments, Mother," he replied, being deliberately cryptic; not ready to divulge this newborn and delicate change of mind. She regarded him skeptically at first, but then her expression shifted to resignation and bemusement, and not a small measure of relief.

"Well, whatever the cause, it is good to see you coming back to yourself. Now, let's go. Can't be late!"

End chapter

Let me know what you think? The next chapter is going to move things right along - not just with the case at the 12th, but with Rick's personal mystery.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

A/N at end of chapter. Thank you once again ebfiddler, beta extraordinaire! Thank you for your help. I will get the hang of all the grammar, eventually...

Chapter 21

Bingo, Baxter's remaining stooge, was biting his filthy fingernails down to the quick as he sat alone in Interview Room One. There was a faint gleam of sweat on his shaved head and shaggy upper lip and his eyes never rested for more than a moment on anything in the room. Kate chewed her lower lip thoughtfully as she regarded him through the one way mirror. He was jumpy as hell. Nervous, bordering on terrified. Likely more open to talking and making deals than Baxter. If she played this right, they might get something useful before the morning was out. She watched her prisoner switch from his right thumb nail to his left and bite down.

"He's going to draw blood in a minute," Ryan mused from Kate's right, from which wafted the smell of cheap precinct instant coffee. He had just returned to the Twelfth after a very early morning shift keeping surveillance on Carmichael, and this was his second cup of coffee in about as many minutes. He had claimed that his need for coffee was so great, he didn't even have the strength to play around with Castle's coffee machine for a better cup. The smell was pungent and sour in the air. "Doesn't look like it will be too hard to get him to talk though."

"Trick will be to get him to talk sense. Guy like that's likely to say just about anything to get the heat offa himself." Espo added from Kate's left. She heard the soft grunt as Ryan acknowledged the truth of his partner's words. And that was the thing really, wasn't it? Kate thought, getting the man to give them the truth, rather than what he thought they wanted to hear. Because if he wasn't handled correctly his words might end up being as useful as Baxter's silence.

"Yeah. True," Ryan spoke again. "Still, we should get something without Carmichael hanging around to keep him quiet." Thanks to Castle, Kate thought.

"Yeah," Espo responded. "How long until his lawyer shows? - oh! Oh crap."

They all watched silently as the door opened and a uniform politely showed Bingo's lawyer into the room. It was Carmichael's attorney. Damn. Kate felt she should have seen that coming; it explained why the man was still in city. They all watched as the smartly dressed woman sat down by her client and opened her briefcase. Then she turned to the nervous wreck of a man beside her and spoke, lips moving silently - too quiet to be heard in the observation room.

"Damn, we need Castle back here to lip read for us," Espo said and he stepped closer to the window, as if that would help him decipher what was being said. Castle. Kate was feeling his absence this morning and with every passing comment like Espo's, it was becoming more acute. Quite apart from her worry for him this morning, he had become their fourth voice, and the conversation in the observation room was lacking without his exuberant presence. For a second, she allowed herself to be selfish and wish he was next to her instead of accompanying his mother to her audition. "What is she saying?" Espo spoke again, interrupting her self-indulgent moment.

"How should I know! That's Castle's thing." Ryan returned, sounding exasperated, but still so awed by their absent partner's hidden skills. "Our man Bingo is paying attention to whatever it is, though."

"OK." Kate had had enough of waiting. Every passing second in the company of his dubious legal 'representative' was reducing Bingo's usefulness to them. "So, now we know why Carmichael is still hanging around, but the moment he's sure his work is done here he will be in the wind. Kevin, you need to get back on him and stay there."

"Sure," Ryan said, nodding.

"Espo, I need you to dig into our favorite attorney here. She might be working for the same people as Carmichael. Let's find out who she really is." Kate took a breath. "I'll get started with Bingo here, before Ms Barnes digs her claws in any tighter."

"Right," Espo returned, and they all exited Observation. Kate headed straight for the door to the interview room and entered without hesitation. The whispered conference stopped immediately.

"Ms Barnes." Kate acknowledged the other woman with a nod. Bingo had stopped chewing his fingernails and was instead leaning towards his latest protector and smirking, his furtive gaze steady now with a new confidence. He watched Kate take up her position opposite him and sit. She placed her closed file folder in front of her.

"Detective Beckett." The attorney responded to Kate's greeting. " My firm will be representing Mr Dubois from now on, and I have notified the public defender to this effect. I want all materials pertinent to my client and the charges listed to be made immediately available to me. Here is my card." Patricia Barnes slid a crisp white business card across the table, pushing it towards Kate with a finely manicured finger. It was unnecessary, given that the lawyer had already provided a card when she represented Carmichael, but Beckett said nothing and the woman went on: "I will expect the aforementioned materials to be in my hand before I leave here today. I don't want to hear any excuses: justice delayed is justice denied, Detective." She paused for a millisecond, to let the swipe at the competency of Kate, her team and the Twelfth (maybe even law enforcement in general) linger. "We will of course be pleading not guilty to these ridiculous charges. My client was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of his own addiction, nothing more."

Kate resisted the urge to blink as Barnes brought her abrupt and forceful opening salvo to a sudden end and resumed her cool poised bearing across the table. She instead, made a show of unhurriedly picking up the other woman's business card and inspecting the embossed typeface with the same dour scrutiny she reserved for evaluating the long rap sheets of habitual offenders. Barnes was a formidable presence, her superciliousness not without justification, and she knew it. Kate and her partners had been shown up once already when she bulldozed them aside and secured the release of Carmichael. That could not happen again. If Kate was to succeed here, she would need to use every weapon, every defence, she possessed - even the petty and passive aggressive over-scrutiny of the business card.

"Yeah, _victim of his own addiction_!" Bingo, _Mr Dubois_ , suddenly spoke up from where he was victoriously grinning beside his new bestest buddy. Kate wondered if he knew what he was saying and how he had just admitted guilt to one of the several charges he was facing. He pointed a finger at Kate's closed file folder, leaning forward over the desk. "Write that down, De-tec-tive. Victim of his _oooown_ addiction. A _vic-tim_! Yeah, that's me!" Kate raised an eyebrow at the man, for Barnes' benefit not his. She blinked and shifted her gaze to the lawyer. _Seriously?_

"Mr Dubois," Barnes spoke, voice still calm and clipped, not appearing at all perturbed. "There is no need to speak to these people. They have wrongfully charged you and that will become clear in a very short time. I would ask that you simply sit back and enjoy the show." Bingo liked that. He sat back, as instructed, grinning more broadly now. Kate had to hand it to Barnes: she knew her man, and had immediately picked up that simple flattery, simple promises that he was protected and on the winning team, were all that were needed to gain his immediate co-operation. He was easily led. Suggestible. Desperate and none too bright, and therefore malleable. And Barnes had him in the palm of her hand.

Well, Kate tried not to smile herself as she opened her folder and looked down at the charge sheet and the copy of Bingo's prolific and mostly petty criminal record that lay there. Two could play at that game.

With an ease borne of long years of repetition, Kate ran through the formalities that would begin the official interview. She listed his charges: unlawful possession of controlled substances; resisting arrest; assault with a deadly weapon; assault upon public employees (i.e. police officers). All throughout Bingo didn't stop grinning, wolfish and giddy, so sure he was going home in a matter of hours. And maybe, somehow, he would be. Barnes had trumped them before, and maybe she would again. But if it came down to that - and Kate would do everything in her power to prevent it - then neither Barnes nor Bingo were going to leave this interview without her learning something from them.

"Well, Mr Dubois," Kate looked up from her folder, "you've gone up in the world it would seem. Until now, you seem to have been content with burglary, a few possession charges and quite a lot of acts of public indecency. What brought about the change? A life of petty crime too boring? Thought you'd step up with the big boys?

"Well, you have certainly achieved that. You are looking at double or even triple digits inside this time. No few months or years. And it won't be soft time either. This time it will be Rikers, with the _really_ big boys. And this time when you go in, you won't come out until you are older than dirt."

Dubois was still smirking, but Kate did not miss the subtle tremor in the man's body that indicated that his leg had started bouncing under the table. His cheek twitched slightly and he folded his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, but I ain't going in -" he stated, chin thrust forward in defiance.

"Mr Dubois!" Barnes interrupted her client, her tone more cutting this time. "I remind you that you do not need to talk to these people. Now, sit back and let me do my job." Kate watched Dubois settle back in his chair, chagrined this time. Clearly embarrassed at being brought to heel publicly, and in front of a cop too. Kate did not miss the slight flash of anger in his eyes as glanced at his lawyer. _Ah ha._ She turned slightly, glancing to her side, before remembering with a pang that Castle was not there to share the observation. Squashing down a strange and sudden feeling of aloneness, Kate looked back at her file notes. Dubois' criminal record was filled with impetuous acts. Apart from his drug arrests and his brief stint as an informant, the commonality across all his crimes was impulsiveness. Hot-headed, rash and stupid with little to no consideration of consequences. She needed to prod him again. And quickly.

"And Detective Beckett, l expected more of you," Barnes continued. "Attacking my client, threatening him? You know better than that, or are you so short on actual evidence you need to trick my client into confessing?" Dubois blinked, startled, at Kate, then scowled as he realised he had been played. He folded his arms over his chest again.

"Not at all Ms Barnes. Your client needs to know the reality of what is facing him if he does not cooperate." Kate kept her voice calm.

"What is facing him is walking out of that door if you do not produce this evidence."

Kate nodded slightly and turned to Bingo.

"Very well then, Mr Dubois, let's start at the beginning. How do you know Mr Tyeis Baxter? He's a little out of your league I would have thought. The last time he was inside it was for assault. He took on three opponents at once, hospitalized all of them and destroyed half a downtown bar. He has a reputation as a hard man, an enforcer. He deals directly with some of the heaviest hitters in this city, Mr Dubois. What is man like that doing partnering up with someone whose last conviction was for," she made a show of checking his convictions, "public urination and other lewd acts outside a shopping mall?"

"Nah, nah, nah. Uh uh, De-tec-tive. You're trying to get at me again!" Bingo was bristling now, sitting bolt upright in his chair and shaking his head. He pointed his finger again. And fell into yet another obvious trap - admitting he knew Baxter, and moreover, that he was in that house _with_ the man, not as an impulsive act of addiction. "Ty and me? Nah. Yeah, me and him, we go _waaay_ back -"

" ** _Mister_** Dubois!" Barnes interjected, finally showing some irritation as she drew out and emphasized the title, m-i-s-t-e-r. "I would remind you - again- to stay quiet."

" _Remind you_ **shit**!" Dubois retorted, as Barnes stole away the man's moment yet again and tried to make him heel. In his agitation he thrust his finger in Kate's direction again. "She's getting at me and you ain't doing nothing about it! Some fancy assed lawyer, you can't even do your job. You s'posed to be protecting me, not sitting on your fancy ass talking all _lah-dee-dah_ fancy ass lawyer talk." Bingo jabbed a finger at Kate yet again. "Now, she's dissin' me, telling me I can't be running with Ty, and you tell me I got to sit here and take it? And you don't say nothin'!"

"Yes, Mr Dubois, you are supposed to do just that! Don't let her get under your skin. I told you -"

Kate couldn't quite believe what she was seeing, or hearing. This was like shooting fish in a barrel; getting Dubois to lose his cool and buck Barne's control was far too easy. In fact, as Espo had warned, it might even become a task in itself to find that balance that would get the man to talk (despite Barnes' presence) without having him spin off into useless ranting.

Still, she had hit on a nerve and if she pressed, perhaps she might get more information before Barnes could rein him in properly and shut the interview down. And it looked like Barnes was getting ready to do just that.

"This is _bullshit_!" Bingo suddenly blurted out and slapped the table. "I want a different lawyer. One with goddamn _balls_!"

Oh, this was even better! Kate squashed the delight she felt before it rose to her face - now he wanted rid of Barnes. Bingo was all but handing himself over for breakfast. All by himself.

"Detective Beckett, I am requesting a break in the interview so that I may further consult with my client," Barnes said.

"Goddamn fancy ass lawyer talk!" Bingo interjected. "I don't need to talk to you no more. I want a different goddamn law-YER!"

"Mr Dubois," Kate snapped, catching his attention. "It is your right to seek alternative legal representation -" I will make every effort to help you get it, Kate thought.

"That will not be necessary Detective!" The hot shot lawyer interrupted her, finally looking a touch unravelled at how suddenly, and successfully, her witless client was managing to get rid of her.

"Don't you tell me what to do!" Bingo retorted. "I want a different lawyer. That guy that Baxter had, the tall skinny fella. What's his face: _Carbuncle_? Yeah. I want _Carbuncle_."

" As I told you," Barnes said. "I am representing you in behalf of Mr _Carmichael_ because he is unable to be here."

"What the hell you talking about?"

"Mr Carmichael can't be here. I'm all you've got, unless you want the public defender back," Barnes almost roared at him, her eyes like razor blades, and the man stopped abruptly, his own eyes widening in alarm. Kate looked at him closely, thinking that this was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of Barnes' temper and it had unnerved him enough that he was stalled. Damn the man for being so easily manipulated. "Now, I suggest we take a moment to collect ourselves. Detective, five minutes if you will."

"Is this what you want Mr Dubois?" Kate pushed him. "It is your right to have someone else represent you." It was hopeless, though, the spineless man was rattled. He shrugged.

"I can talk to her I suppose." He said, then suddenly rallied his barely existent pride and added some golden words as he pointed his finger again: "But, just so _you_ know: me and Ty, we go waaay back. We do. We hang out. Go for beer and watch a game. Get into some serious shit too. We do. 'Cause we're buddies, partners. Him and me: we're _family_."

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Beckett left Dubois and his lawyer to 'talk' and headed back into the bullpen, mind latched on Bingo's words. One word in particular: _family_. It made sense. There was little else that would put someone of Baxter's criminal reputation with an idiotic, hot-headed petty criminal like Bingo Dubois. _Family._ Yes. But how? Brothers, cousins, nephew and uncle, linked through a relative's marriage? All her instincts told her that this was going to be the key, not only to making the right connections that would lead to good convictions, but also to revealing just who Carmichael was, who he worked for, and what he was holding over Baxter.

"Beckett, yo!" Espo called out as she neared their desks. He canted back in his chair, resting a hand on one armrest, an elbow on the other.

"Anything?" Beckett asked as she neared him.

"Yeah, but nothing tasty. Looks like Barnes is legit. Senior partner at Shaw and Perini on Park Avenue; long track record in the City as a big time defence attorney - she doesn't usually get involved in homicide cases, which is probably why we haven't heard of her. Very public profile though. Charity work all over. Pro Bono work up the wazoo. There's rumours she wants to run for Governor in a few years. She has a nickname too: The Shark." He shrugged. "There's no obvious link between her and Carmichael, or Baxter either. But her firm did sit down for lunch with Joey Barbero a month ago."

"Isn't he Mob?"

"He's connected, but not Family. He has some legit business holdings in the Warehouse District and a restaurant off Broadway."

"How legit?"

"Enough." Espo shrugged, gruffly apologetic at the lack of anything useful. Kate nodded. She had suspected as much. Barnes was just too sharp, she loved her work too much, to be obviously dirty - if she was even corrupt at all. "But no links I can see to Carmichael, Baxter or Baxter's victim."

"OK, good work Javi," she nodded at him.

"Anything from _Bingo_?"

"Yes, actually. Although not directly. He said something right after Barnes requested a break. He said that he and Baxter were _family_."

"As in crime buddy family? Old Neighborhood family?"

"No, I don't think so. There was something in the way he said it. I think it's more than that."

"You think they are actually blood?" Espo raised an eyebrow in open skepticism. Kate didn't blame him. Two more different men could not exist than the skinny impulsive Bingo and the silent man mountain that was Ty Baxter.

"I don't know. It's possible."

"In the Twilight Zone maybe."

"Maybe," Kate conceded. It was a stretch and Espo was entitled to his disbelief. But still the nagging feeling would not abate. This was _important_. This was _key_. "Still, I think it's something. More something than we've had in this whole twisted affair anyway."

"OK, Boss," Espo nodded. "I'll look into it some more. There was nothing at Baxter's digs, or in his records, that connected him to Bingo. But then, we weren't really looking for that. There could be something."

"OK," Kate nodded. "Time to go. Barnes' five minutes is up." She turned to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and check in with Kevin. Depending on what happens with our Bingo Dubois, I have a feeling Carmichael might be about to make his next move."

"Will do." Epso was reaching for his cell as she turned back to make the short walk to Interview.

When Kate re-entered the room, it was to a much different scene than before. Bingo was all but cowering in his chair, mouth pressed into a tight bloodless "no comment" line. If he had had a tail, it would have been between his legs. And Barnes was back to her confident cool self, poised with pen in hand and slight crocodile smile fixed in place. Damn.

"Mr Dubois is ready to proceed with the interview Detective Beckett," Barnes said.

The rest of the interrogation was a waste of time.

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Kate sat back from her laptop with a sigh, and straightened up to stretch out her spine. Ugh. The human body was _not_ built to be hunched over desks. She rubbed bleary eyes. On her laptop screen, the results of a fruitless morning were now glowing back at her in a crisp clear report friendly font. Barnes had shut Dubois down, reducing the man to a puppet that only knew two words of English: _no_ and _comment_ , and only in that particular order. Still, she had him partly hooked with his inadvertent confession to being at Baxter's safe house for the purpose of seeking and taking illicit drugs _and_ to being linked to Baxter by more than just a place of arrest; and the eyewitness accounts of several police officers that Dubois had at least pointed his gun at them would keep him locked down until forensics could tell them if his firearm was responsible for anything else they could charge him with. And until they could dig up something more on Dubois' claim to family ties. As yet it was not clear what exactly that was, but the pull of family was strong; the motivation to create it, hang on to it, to protect it, was intense. She had investigated numerous cases where links to family had been the key motivator for the crime, or led to a key beneficiary. She hoped that whilst she was stuck doing paperwork, Espo's return to Baxter's and Dubois' residences was revealing more of this connection.

So, Bingo was back in custody, but Barnes had won.

For now.

Kate rolled her shoulders again, muscles stiff. She had to check in with the people Captain Montgomery had assigned to Castle's 'hate mail'. The detectives assigned had been briefed by Montgomery, and then later she had unofficially, quietly, briefed them further and more specifically. She had not looked at the content of the material that Gina had sent over, and wasn't looking forward to seeing or hearing about what craziness Castle was attracting. Mostly because she would want to go start arresting people, whether they had actually broken the law or not. But, she _would_ look at it because, well, how could she not? As unlikely as she felt it was, if that murderer (or someone equally as dangerous) did turn up amongst the crazies and the trolls and was missed, she would never forgive herself.

So, as of right now, Espo was following up on Dubois' claim to familial ties with Baxter, and Ryan had reported in that Carmichael was still in the City - doing nothing as far as he could see. So that left her with checking on the mail team and finishing up her report and - oh crap!

Kate hunched down again with a jerk, and raised a manila folder in front of her face.

The auditor! The man that had been lurking around to check they were _accommodating Castle's special needs_ , had just stepped out of the elevator. What was he doing back here? Wasn't he done tormenting her, them? She peeked over her folder. The man was looking around the bullpen, his clipboard folder raised, pen in his free hand poised as if he was about to mark the entire precinct down for failing to salute as he entered the room. Was he looking for round two with her? Crap. Crap. This was not what she needed right now. OK, so she had to just slip off her chair. Like that. Don't forget to lock the lap top. Going well. Keep the folder just so. God, this was so childish. She felt like she was thirteen again, hiding from a crush she was too embarrassed to talk to.

Just got to get... to the breakroom. And -

The door snicked behind her as Kate slipped inside the room and let her folder lower from face level. She immediately turned, peeked through the blinds that covered the window on the door, and saw the Mayor's man heading towards Montgomery's door. Oh thank god! She turned back and -

"Sir?" she squeaked, surprise raising her pitch in an undignified manner as she came eye to eye with Captain.

"Detective?" Montgomery responded, sounding strangely startled himself.

"Ah, I was just looking for someone to -" she floundered.

"- getting coffee. It's been a long morning-," he spoke at the same time, their words jumbling together.

They stared at each other.

 _So busted._

"Is he still there?" Montgomery suddenly said, moving up alongside her to peek through the blinds as well. Kate blinked: _both_ busted?

"What? Oh, um, he's gone down the corridor. Looking for you I think," Kate said, breathing out her relief that she wasn't the only one playing hide and seek with the auditor, and watched Montgomery straighten up, letting the blinds snap closed. He exhaled through pursed lips.

"Security let me know he was on his way up," he said, looking chagrined and embarrassed at the same time, "and I just - And that man is just - !"

"Like a mosquito, sir?"

"Well put. Yes." His expression shifted from self-conscious to a confidence more fitting his Captain's rank. "I know it has to be done. Protocol. And it is right and proper that everyone's needs are met. And Bob really needs all his t's crossed and i's dotted right now, but... How is it coming with the Baxter/Carmichael investigation?"

"Not as well as I would like, but we have some leads."

"Good. Good. Castle made an excellent call with Carmichael, it would be a shame to lose track of him now. I look forward to reading your report. Keep me up to date Detective."

"I will sir - Sir?" Kate prompted as her Captain's attention was caught by something happening through the uncovered window to the right of the door. She turned too, fully expecting to see the auditor staring at them through the window. Instead her attention was caught by Castle as he charged between the elevator doors, not waiting for them to open fully, and into the bullpen. And the look on his face -

Oh my god... _Oh no_! Her breath caught in her throat even as she lunged for the door and wrenched it open.

"Castle?" _Please let everyone be all right!_ Castle kept scanning the room, evidently not hearing her, then his eyes found his target and he came racing in her direction. He grabbed her upper arms, each finger digging into her flesh, panting, trying to speak and failing, and sucking in more air, coughing and wincing. He was flushed, sweating, eyes flashing with something that looked like -

"I - know -" he pulled in another breath.

"Castle, slow down. What do you know? Is it Alexis? Martha? Did something happen?" she demanded back, bending her elbows so that she could raise her own hands and grab back at him. She took fistfuls of his light woollen coat sleeves. They clung to one another.

Castle shook his head. "No, no. Ever-y-one OK. Just - ran all - way."

"From where? Why?" Kate asked, only comforted by degrees by his breathless reassurances. Castle shut his eyes and took a few long controlled breaths. When he opened his eyes again, she realised that rather than alarm, his wild-eyed look was burning bright with a familiar gleam: epiphany! Abruptly, she felt the full weight of her body again, and of his too as he leaned into her, as her knees wobbled with spent adrenaline and relief.

"I - know. What we - miss - Baxter!" He sucked in a breath and blew the exhalation out with slower deliberation; fighting to control his breathing. He grimaced with the effort.

"OK, Castle." Montgomery spoke from beside Kate and she startled at the sound of his voice. "Just calm down, take a moment. Then tell us." The Captain's quiet voice was gentle, but commanding, and Castle nodded, trying to regulate his breathing. They waited. Then -

"Baxter. I was waiting for Mother, at her audition. Thinking. Baxter." Castle drew in another breath, coughed and flinched, before continuing in a long uninterrupted stream of consciousness. "What motivates someone to kill? What motivated Baxter to kill? Can't be anything personal in it, as far as we know Baxter didn't know the guy. Had never met him. Then there's Carmichael: seems to be pulling some strings. And then I thought: I'm thinking about this all wrong. It's not about Baxter's motivation to kill. It's about his fear of talking about it." Castle coughed again as his breath started to run out, this time pulling an arm free to brace against his side. "Ow!"

"Castle-" Kate tried to interrupt the flow of words as his bruised ribs protested their abuse, but her partner was on a roll, only partially in the here and now. The rest of him was caught up in his mind, his face alight and intense through the beard scruff and bruises. It was so good to see that joyful mystery solving passion again that she let him brush her concerns for his injuries aside. And anyway, she was becoming infected with his excitement and she really wanted to see where his thoughts had taken him. She missed it. Even in the handful of days since everything blew up in their faces, she had already begun to miss this ebullient puzzle solving side to their partnership.

"So, I'm thinking: what made him kill and what made him afraid?" Castle went on. "Baxter doesn't strike me as the sort that scares easily, even when facing the huge sentence he is looking at, so it has to be something big. Really big. Bigger than his desires, bigger than his needs. So, it's not about money. That comes and goes. It's not about protecting his friends and colleagues, there's no need to fear that - that's a noble thing. It's not about what could face him inside: he's been there before and from what I understand he was amongst friends there. Can't be about Carmichael threatening him: that sort of thing is just a job hazard to someone of Baxter's ilk and Carmichael would have to know that Baxter would never voluntarily talk to law enforcement - on point of honor. So what could it _be_?

"Then, Alexis messaged me that Pinky was going to _take over the worm,_ and it hit me-"

"Hold on, Castle: _Pinky_? Take over the _worm_?" Montgomery asked.

"Alexis?" Kate blinked, struggling to make any connection that made sense.

"Pinky and the Brain! The Cartoon!" Castle admonished them, as he waved both his hands around in exasperation. "It's not _worm_ , it's _world_. And it was lucky she messaged me in the loft elevator, or I would have called out the National Guard. But... Don't you see what this means?"

"Not entirely sure I am following you Castle. Maybe you should sit down." Montgomery said and Castle released Kate's arm to wave off the suggestion.

"No, no. It means that Baxter has a -"

"Baxter has a kid!" Espo's voice barrelled right through them, blending with Castle's, as he strode rapidly across the bullpen to their little group, waving a file folder. Castle jabbed his finger in a 'yes!' motion, not at all upset at having his thunder stolen. Espo gave him a frown as he shouldered just passed the writer:

"Hey, Castle. You look like shi- er crap. Anyway, yeah, he has a kid. A daughter," Espo went on. Behind him, Castle punched the air in triumph and winced as his injuries must have protested. "Did some digging through Dubois' pad - I am never going to get the stink outta my clothes - and found a photo stuck to the fridge." He produced a polaroid and they all crowded around to see it. "You were right Beckett, Bingo wasn't lying about being family."

There in the photograph was Dubois, all toothy grin holding a can, next to a woman who looked so much like him it was unsettling. _His sister?_ It seemed like they were at a backyard party of some sort, by the background clutter of streamers, stacked beer kegs and the people clustered around a BBQ. But it was the girl between Dubois and the mystery woman that captured Kate's notice. Standing tall between the two adults, an arm around the woman, the girl must have been all of 10 and still very much a child in her pink t-shirt and flowery headband. Her coloring and the shape of her nose was the image of the woman she was embracing- _her mother, must be_ \- but in every other feature Kate could see Baxter. The resemblance was startling in its strength. Still...

"Javi, this is a great find, but -"

"Check out the background, over Bingo's shoulder." Her partner said, eyes smiling with his own quiet triumph. Kate did as instructed and found the solid brick wall that was Baxter staring back at her from the group of people around the BBQ. But no, he wasn't staring at the camera, he was looking at the girl with an expression she had seen on Castle's face more than once when Alexis was in the room - a total and all-consuming adoration. She glanced up to see Castle recognizing the same thing, and she watched his expression slip from exuberant and triumphant to something much quieter and more thoughtful.

"He's protecting his daughter, Bingo's niece," Kate breathed, answering for them both. "That's why he's not talking, that's why he's scared."

"Carmichael is using Baxter's daughter to keep him in line," Montgomery concurred, nodding. "This is good work people. Do we know where this girl is? If we can find her, bring her in, protect her - "

"We might be able to get him to talk," Kate finished for him, nodding herself. This _was_ good. "This just might be the key to everything."

"Let me talk to him. To Baxter," Castle suddenly spoke, still staring at the photo. He looked up at Kate, then Montgomery. "I can do it. Beckett. Captain. I can do this. Let me talk to him: father to father."

"Barnes will never let him talk, bro," Espo said. "And it would be too dangerous for Baxter's daughter to question - "

"I know," Castle interrupted him, holding up a placating hand. "I know. But I could do it unofficially. Just Baxter and I. In the cells if necessary."

"This is very sensitive, Castle," Montgomery chipped in. "Persuading Baxter to talk, despite what we know, is not going to be easy and a lot is riding on it being done right. Sharing fatherhood is not necessarily going to be enough to get through to him."

"I know." Castle said, nodding, expression serious. "But, I think I understand what he's going through -" Castle caught himself and took a breath. "I can do this, sir."

"Detective Beckett?" the Captain deferred to her with a prompt. It said a lot about the esteem the Captain held Castle in that he was even considering his proposal. Kate was surprised by that, and took a second to gather her thoughts.

"I think Castle could be an asset here Captain," Kate nodded, concurring. Even aside from her pleasure at having Castle returning to her side for the investigation, her partner was right about understanding Baxter's motivations - better even than the Captain knew. After all, he had been silently protecting his own daughter from harm all these years; hiding and shielding her from the murderous figure he had been victim to in the woods so many years ago. So, yes, Castle just might be able to pull this off.

"Very well," her boss said, looking at Castle. "You have already provided key inputs into this investigation - in more ways than one. A little more would certainly be appreciated. But, not alone. Detective Beckett will be with you. All the way. Just - don't provoke the man - again." The Captain suddenly glanced away from them, behind their huddle, then back at Castle. "In fact, while arrangements are made to talk to Baxter and find this daughter of his, you can starting being useful."

"What?" Castle asked as Montgomery pointed over his shoulder. The writer turned to see and was brought up short by a familiar suited man.

"Ah, Mr Castle!" The auditor beamed up at her partner as he hurried over to their huddled group, over articulating his words. Kate watched as Castle's eyes grew round. "Just the man I was looking for!"

End of Chapter

A/N: I wasn't really sure about this chapter. It was a tough one to write. I hope it works. Please R&R and let me know.


	23. Chapter

Chapter 23

Oh. My. God. I am SO sorry for the unforgivable delay between chapters. The usual issues have arisen, but I am back now. I am bringing this story into its last streak of chapters. More frequently. I swear. _So ashamed..._

Thank you to my long suffering Beta. This was never meant to go on this long. Thank you for your understanding and dedication to this labour. I appreciate it so much.

And lastly, I am very nervous about this chapter. Its needed to bridge to the next part of the story, but I hope it adds something along the way and I hope that you like it. Please let me know what you think. And once again, sincere apologies to all you lovely people that have stuck by this (inadvertantly) lengthy story. I hope you continue to find these chapters worth waiting for.

On with the show...

Beckett watched Castle as he blinked away his round-eyed surprise at the unexpected appearance of the auditor. Within a heartbeat lines of tension smoothed, his posture straightened, body language becoming relaxed and open, and somehow, _somehow,_ despite the slight smirk that also appeared, he was suddenly all at once both guileless and beguiling. But then that twist of his lips grew as the auditor went on and on with his over-articulated and painfully plodding introductions, and Kate added _cocky and smug_ to her descriptive list. She had seen this sort of instantaneous transformation before of course, in the street, on cases, even in the Precinct, as fans large and small, famous, infamous, bashful, fawning and sleazy, lunged at him without warning. No matter what he was doing at the time he seemed to flip an internal switch, and there he was: Mr Smug-celebrity-cum-wise-ass. It was the same self-satisfied flippant expression, the exact body language that he had worn at their first encounter. And she had immediately assumed as she became instantly, heatedly, irritated by it, that what she was seeing in front of her was the outward expression of the entirety of his character: cocky, immature, self-centred, smart-ass, opportunistic, shallow jerk! It had irked her then, and it continued to, even as she came to know that her first assumption had been wrong.

"- And, considering the circumstances, I am sure the Captain will not mind if we use his office for this interview - " the auditor was saying, turning to look at his victim. Beckett glanced at the Captain, reading the flash of annoyance on the man's face.

"Ah!" Castle interrupted the smaller man, his grin stretching into a fully fledged beam as he swooped to Montgomery's rescue, "but we can't get ourselves coffee in the good Captain's office." He slung his injured arm around the auditor's shoulders, making the smaller man grunt and dip under the unexpected weight, and pointed at the break room door. "Now, you probably don't know this about me, but I make a killer latte. I do. Really, outstanding. The foam: as delicate as a springtime cloud. You can ask anyone here - Espo?"

"What? Don't lay that delicate cloud crap on me Castle," Espo retorted, squaring up his shoulders, jutting out his chin. It took all Kate's strength not to roll her eyes. "I drink real coffee, man's coff-"

"Ah, don't mind him, he's shy," Castle interrupted the other man with a dismissive wave so perfectly reminiscent of his mother. Espo bristled. "He's a fan. Really. Now, where was I? Oh yes: the perfect latte-"

"This is really not necessary, Mr Castle," the auditor spluttered, as Castle talked over the top of him.

"It's no trouble. No trouble at all. Now, behind that very door over there, is the machine with which I will work my magic for you."

" But -"

"Aah, feeling cautious?" Castle asked companionably as he began to escort the bewildered auditor the short distance from their huddle to the break room. "I understand. I do. It's difficult to get a really top line caffè latte away from The Continent. But set aside your reservations my friend: I am a trained Barista! Two summers ago, my family and I vacationed in Rome and -" Castle opened the door as he continued to ramble away, and gently but inexorably steered the auditor into the break room. The author winked back at them, smirked at Espo, and vanished into the room still running his patter like a used-car salesman. The door closed behind them. A moment later the venetian blinds in the break room windows clattered shut.

"I don't know which one of them to feel sorrier for," Espo muttered. "Clouds, my ass!"

Montgomery ignored the outburst, drew in and released a relieved breath, a satisfied look on his face. He turned to the two Detectives: "Right. Castle is doing his job. Now, you two go find that girl."

CASTLECASTLECASTLE

Kate accessed the speed dial on her cell as she stared at the closed break room door. _What was Castle doing in there?_ She raised the phone to her ear catching the purr of the last few numbers cycling through the dial out for Kevin Ryan. _Was he_ really actually _making that annoying man coffee? And - a latte? Really: a latte? He couldn't have picked a_ cappuccino _to tempt..._

"Hey Boss."

"Kevin!" Kate snapped, and winced, feeling a faint flush of embarrassment. _It's just a coffee for godsake!_ She was losing the plot here. Unprofessional. Ridiculous. Petty. She drew in a breath. "Sorry. Are you free to talk?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"What's happening with Carmichael? Any movement?"

"Not really. He's pretty much marking time from what I can see. Made a few phone calls. I can't get close enough to listen in without being made. But, so far, no movement."

"OK. It looks like we have a new lead. Carmichael, or at least someone connected to him, has been keeping Baxter quiet," Kate paused, "by threatening his daughter."

"Jesus." Ryan's disgust broadcast clearly over the cell connection.

"So," Kate went on, "Javi and I will be tracking her down to bring her in. ASAP. I need you to sit tight a little longer. We'll be as discreet and as fast as we can, but if Carmichael learns what we are up to - "

"He'll make a move on the kid - if he doesn't have her already," Ryan finished.

"Yeah. Or move on Baxter. Or both of them." Kate nodded as she spoke. She could only hope that Carmichael, or his associates, did not already have the girl. Right now, their best hope was that the threat was still abstract, still only words. If not then their job was going to be near impossible in the minuscule timeframe they were pushing against.

"OK, I'll let you know if Carmichael makes any suspicious moves. Or if he disappears."

"Thanks Kevin."

"What about the lawyer? Barnes? Anyone sitting on her?"

"Not enough evidence to support the resources we would need. If she is involved, and I am not so sure she is, we are just going to have to move even faster and be even smarter. A little girl's life may depend on it."

"Understood," Ryan answered. The call ended.

Kate drew in a long breath and let it go.

They would have to move fast. And tactfully. She ran her fingers through her hair as she laid her cell down on the desk and logged back into her computer. Kevin was good at his job. Better than good. So, for the moment Carmichael was dealt with, and she could focus on Baxter and his daughter. Espo was already adding grease to smooth the official and unofficial wheels that led to Baxter's cell door. A friend from his old neighbourhood, one that had joined the Force a few years after him, was currently the Uniform on duty in the cells and her partner was confident that he could be relied upon to help their mercy dash to save a little girl. Those cameras down there in the cells were after all overdue for maintenance anyway, and Javi felt sure they weren't in the best of condition and might at any time go on the fritz. He was sure his friend would feel the same way.

So for the moment, Kate was able to turn her mind and her resources to narrowing down the best leads that might take them to Baxter's daughter - without the big man's help if necessary. She brought up the records and began to read, jotting down notes as she did so. The mother of Baxter's child was not listed amongst his next of kin and she knew that the child was not being held at his recorded place of residence, so she widened the search. Bingo Dubois' vacant eyed stare glared out at her from his mugshot as she brought up his file. Again she dismissed place of residence, instead looking at his personal connections. There was a girlfriend listed, Persephone Eloisa Charity Benardi -Chandler. _Really?_ Kate's eyebrows climbed her forehead as she read the name. She had a similar record to Dubois', and was currently out on parole. Dubois' sister emerged next - the woman from the photograph Espo had shown them. As rat-shifty and empty-eyed as her brother, with a criminal record to rival his, also out on parole. Kate noted down her details as well. Children listed: a daughter - age 10, name: Monday Daisy Dubois-Baxter, attending a local elementary school. She flung the net wide then, tracking known associates close enough to be involved. Amongst them, Baxter's dead comrade had no listed next of kin, but there was an ex-wife living on the other side of the country. Unlikely.

This was going to have to do. They had to move.

Kate logged off from her computer and, clutching her notepad, headed towards Montgomery's door. She knocked.

"Come." Her Captain was working at his desk; a file open in front of him and his laptop open to the side.

"Sir," she greeted him.

"Detective."

"We are about ready to make a move on Baxter."

"Good. Do you have sufficient resources?"

"We still don't know all the details yet Captain. So, I am reluctant to go in heavy or with uniforms given the timeframe and how little we know. We can't afford to alert Carmichael or his people to what we are doing. If the threat against Baxter's daughter is academic so far, that's one thing, but if he is holding her somewhere - "

"Let's hope he's not."

"Given the circumstances then, sir, I would like to request two additional officers, in plain clothes. Gomez and Ataturk are available, and they are discreet and reliable. Depending on the outcome of the interrogation with Baxter we may to need to hit multiple locations very quickly to pick up the daughter."

Montgomery regarded her for a moment, nodding, and sat back in his chair. "I know we have _discussed_ the matter," he said, "but do you _really_ think Castle is up for this? For interrogating Baxter? For convincing him to let us help his daughter? The man looks like yesterday's punching bag, and while I am well aware how well he handles his hearing issues, there is a lot riding on this: can he handle it?"

"Yes. Sir. I think he can." Kate nodded slowly, realising as she listened to Montgomery's concerns, that she meant it: yes, she did think Castle could do this. Despite his ordeal over the last few days. Maybe even because of it. "He's seen how we operate, and I have to admit that he has some - ability. And he isn't police. In this case, right now, I think he could be the one to help us."

"Well. Stay with him when you are interrogating Baxter. Apart from anything else, I don't want to see another headline connecting Castle's face with a suspect's fist and this Precinct again for a long long time. Go brief Gomez and Ataturk. Dismissed. And good luck."

Kate headed back into the bullpen, and was relieved to see a familiar figure once again in Castle's chair: her partner was back. He was hunched over and staring at his cellphone, forehead creased, lips firmly pressed together, oblivious of her approach. She took a moment to quietly, stealthily, appreciate what she was seeing now that she could take the time to do so. He looked good – better, anyway. A little scruffy – though he had clearly tried to shave around the bruises – but otherwise he appeared much more rested than she had seen him since the fight with Baxter. He was wearing that blue open collar shirt and navy pea coat that he so loved, and those dark jeans that she so – well –. But the familiar shape of him, broad and solid, filling the chair and somehow managing to sprawl messily outside its frame even as still and contained as he was right now, took some weight from her shoulders. She watched him swipe and swat at his cell phone with his less injured thumb, still not registering her approach. Yes, they were going to do this, she thought. They were going to save that child and solve this case. Together.

But then that painful confession, the one that was so difficult for him to put words too, rose in her mind and she was suddenly also reminded of his embrace - their embrace - barely a day old. It was the one thing she had been trying not to think about since that night, and she had been somewhat successful at it until right about now. He had grabbed at her, pulling her in to his chest, without preamble or any warning. She remembered the raw feeling bleeding from him, the heat of his skin burning through his shirt, and that same cologne that was now permeating the air around her desk... She swallowed. Had _he_ thought about it since? No. This was not the time or place to be thinking about this. In fact she did not want to think of it at all. Nope. She was still feeling the newness of the small touches they were sharing. Even if most of them were utilitarian in motive, the feel of him under her finger tips and those returned touches were startling in their intensity and were stirring things she would rather not recognize. Thinking of anymore was just too much.

No.

They had a case.

They had a girl to find.

Then they had Castle's case – _if_ he would let her help him. Anymore was just too much.

"That better not be Alive4-ever, Castle!" She called out, disguising the alert to her approach within familiar hard edged banter. Alive4-ever was his favorite App at the moment: zombies and more zombies. She had caught him out more than once fussing with the Undead and creating a nuisance of himself with his wriggling and flourishing and loud exclamations as some virtual zombie took him by surprise, so it was a safely normal thing to broadcast across the room. She rounded her desk and bumped the back of his chair with her hip as she did. Just to be sure he got the message.

"Ah, Beckett!" Castle finally looked up, smoothly deflecting from his failure to detect her approach with a broad showy grin, cheesy and plastic, and slipped his cell into the breast pocket of his shirt, under his coat. Kate frowned at the odd secrecy of the movement. Perhaps he was also deflecting from whatever he was doing on his phone as well? Didn't he say something about Alexis sending him messages while he was out of the loft? Was that it? No, that didn't make sense. He wouldn't hide that? Her curiosity bubbled just under her skin, but she could see he was not in a mood to tell her. Fine. That was fine.

"What did you do with our mutual friend?" she asked, gesturing at the break room door. "Do I need to make an arrest?"

"Ah no. No cuffs needed. Not for that at least," he rejoined. "No, our Mr Jones, Auditor Extraordinaire, discovered all that he needed to and is on his way back to see our beloved Mayor to file his glowing report on the conditions at the 12th with - regards to yours truly." She heard the subtle hesitation as he instinctively avoided mention of his precise medical condition, and she watched him breeze on before he could be called on it. It was amazing to see these small signs now that she knew what he was doing and why. Each cover was so smooth, so natural in execution that she was beginning to feel she could let herself off the hook for not recognizing his hearing issues much earlier. "I don't think he will be back."

Still...

"That- " she hesitated herself, searching for the words. Maybe just finding the courage to voice them. "That must have been - difficult Castle. To talk to him. About –" She watched Castle's lips twist, recognizing what she was asking. _How long had it been since he had had to have a frank discussion about his hearing with a stranger, with anyone?_ Now, in less than a week he had been forced to have that revealing conversation with so _many_ people, and see it put up in headlines in the press, but this was a different, perhaps more confronting thing. This was clinical. This was a discussion designed to dissect his experiences at the 12th as a person no longer viewed as whole, vital or capable. In that room, no matter how he would no doubt have tried to control the conversation and keep it as distant from himself as possible, he would have been forced to let the auditor's knife slice into that hidden part of himself and allow the wound to be pulled open. There was a flash of something very serious, maybe even painful in her partner's eyes as she spoke, and for a moment she thought he was about speak of it, but then the expression was gone and he was shrugging it off.

"You know me: talking about myself _is_ my favourite subject." He threw back at her, cockily, in what she now knew was a bald faced lie. But OK, message understood - that was too much of a conversation to have right now. Relief, and guilt about feeling so, sent her into retreat as well and she threw him a reflexive annoyed _look_ that seemed to bring a measure of respite to her partner as well. Their eyes met for less than a second, but it was long enough for her to see his appreciation that she had asked the question, and the relief that she hadn't pushed him to answer.

"Well," she said, breaking the tension for them both, "on behalf of everyone at the Precinct, I thank you."

"Wait, what?" Castle blinked back at her, groping for his cell again. "Hang on, can you say that again? I need to record it."

"Record what?"

"You said: _thank you_. To me. About something work related. I have to record this, or the boys won't believe me."

She frowned at him. He raised his hands, cellphone back in his pocket and eyes widening in mock fear and surrender, before his gaze returned to her desk, her computer.

"So," he moved on, smoothly, and peered at her darkened computer screen. "Found anything while I was charming our dear Mr Jones?"

"Yes, actually. A few leads, but -" She paused, taking in the subtle signs of the discomfort and fatigue that were written into his face and the graceless slump of his body even as he forced himself to sit up at attention, to play his part, and knew she had to ask. "Castle. We need Baxter's help. There are leads we can run down, but it's going to be difficult. We are straddling a knife blade here - one misstep and a little girl's life could be in danger and so we _need_ Baxter's co-operation." She watched his gaze harden, but not with anger. He understood the gravity of the situation (perhaps better than anyone involved), and she knew he did, but sometimes things needed to be voiced. "Can you do this? What you told the Captain, are you up to tackling Baxter? Really? I - I'm not asking you this because I think you can't do it. I am asking for _you_ to think on this. To be sure. Do _you_ feel you can do this? There is no shame in saying no. If you are needed at home. Espo and I can -"

"I can do it Beckett," he said. And from the look in his eye she could see that he intended to do it, no matter what Baxter threw at him, no matter what it cost him. She nodded and watched him lift his shoulders, the motion stiff and heavy but determined. He was tired, hurting. Was he overestimating his capabilities – as usual? Had _she_ miscalculated how much better she thought he was? But that look in his eye... Fire and light and... Oh. She suddenly realised that the reason he was looking better than he had, was less a result of recuperation and more about that sparkling warmth, that fierce delight in the work - _their_ work - that had returned to eyes. Something had changed since she had seen him last. Something good. He was more himself than he had been since the hospital. She wanted to ask. But, then there was a little girl out there; a child in danger. Her own personal curiosities would have to wait.

"All right." Kate nodded again, accepting Castle's surety. "Espo has gone ahead of us to clear the way to talk to Baxter, uninterrupted, and I have to go brief a few people about what we are up to. We have a few minutes. Go, take a break. A _real_ break, Castle. You look like you need it and once this starts we won't likely get the chance to rest for some time."

End

Chapter 24 - Castle takes on Baxter and then takes on the world (as he knows it) ...


	24. Chapter 24

Hello everyone. Next chapter. Self-edited this time, so please excuse any grammatical issues.

As always, thank you for sticking with me on this epically long journey. The story is now moving into its final phase.

Please take a few moments to let me know what you think!

And on with the show...

Chapter 24

Rick took Beckett's advice for some time out, and headed back in to the Break room (that was, thankfully, empty) with more coffee on his mind. It was not exactly the most restful fare, but the making of it was the soothing, quieting, centring part that he was seeking in the short time they had before he would confront Baxter. And his partner was right, as usual, he did need a moment to take himself out of the spotlight and find a little silence. He grimaced a little at the descriptor his mind had chosen – _a little silence_. His was not a world devoid of sound, but neither was he used to all this _noise_. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that he had been living within the eye of his own personal storm (pun also not intended); concealed within a little bubble, keeping everything and everyone back at a manageable and muted distance. All the invasive clamour and tumult of having that bubble burst was unexpectedly deafening. And tiring. And painful.

And Mr Jones had not helped. It had been hard enough to reveal himself to friends, and even to the impersonal story-hungry press, but it was an entirely different sort of beast to handle when he had to show himself to someone like Mr Jones. The auditor had a job to do, and Rick he knew that he had it coming for hiding himself for so long, but did Bob really have to send someone so... so... Bureaucratic? It was an unexpectedly piercing injury to be taken apart and examined through the dry dusty prism of _government disability legislation_. It had been impossible to keep the Mayor's man off topic either, despite the killer latte and distracting patter. Mr Jones was a professional – with a profound lack of curiosity and no discernable sense of humour – so there was no getting around it. In the end, Rick had to concede to the superior power. As painfully confronting as it was, if this was Bob's revenge for keeping this secret and exposing the politician to negative press, Rick supposed he had to take it. So he spun a good tale, answered a scripted series of questions, and tried not to wince whenever the man over articulated his words like some bad Vaudevillian mime.

He would swallow his medicine _and_ take one for the team. He would be _useful_.

Useful...

He had never been _useful_ before. There had been many titular adjectives bestowed upon him in his life: annoying, funny, slick, delinquent, embarrassing, disappointing, eligible, unforthcoming, clever, burdensome, loquacious, lucrative, childish, frustrating – but never _useful_. He pondered that as he thumbed his cell to life and sought out Alexis' details.

 _Definition_ : _useful – helping to do or obtain something._

And Montgomery had sent him off to be _useful_. Told him to be. Right when the Captain would have been within his rights to send him home given he was kind of suspended, he had accepted Rick's offer to talk with Baxter and had then ordered him to help him get the Precinct rid of Mr Jones. To go into battle for the defence of the Captain's kingdom! To be useful. That new potential title was strangely restorative and immediately inspired a desire to earn it, adding to his increasingly elevated mood and helping armour him against the worst of the sting of Mr Jones' interrogation.

He wondered if Beckett ever really considered him _useful_. Not entirely without use, for sure, but did she ever think of him as _useful_? To her work? To her?

Abruptly, the cell phone buzzed in his hand, interrupting his thoughts. It was Alexis. She would be responding to the prompt he sent whilst waiting for his partner just now: "The _voice of parents is the voice of gods –",_

 _AC: " - for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants."_ _ **The Double Falsehood, a play by William Shakespeare.**_

He was going to pay for that one. He grinned – actually feeling like doing so for the first time in days. Then the phone suddenly vibrated again:

 _AC: Really, Dad?_ Really _?_

There was another buzz. This time the message was from Thwaites Personal Security, his preferred agency for private protection. Someone he had also messaged while waiting for Beckett.

 _ThwaitesSec: Message received, Mr Bond. Assignment parameters acceptable. 4 units available for immediate start. Usual Fund transfer details. Please confirm._

 _RC: Confirmed. Required 0600. Usual access arrangements._

 _ThwaitesSec: Confirmed._

And may Alexis and Mother forgive him, because there was no way he was going to let them out of the loft without personal protection. Despite everything, he would not risk his family's safety. Even if the figure in the forest might not be about to swoop down the street outside his house and attack during peak hour traffic, there were other ways, other times, and there was still the run of the mill problematic people that were (by the looks of his recent mail) feeling stirred into great passion by his _deception_. And now, Alexis was desperate to return to school and his Mother was anticipating a call back after her audition along with direction to attend immediate rehearsals. He couldn't be in two places at once, but Thwaites could. And he trusted them.

And they agreed to let him have a code name.

Rick deleted the text history and pocketed his phone. Time for coffee. He set about selecting the cups from the battered collection in the cupboard under the coffee machine. Two cups. The least chipped. He washed them out and set them aside before beginning his ritual. The machine he had gifted Homicide was only months old, but it was already looking every inch the workhorse to a horde of heavy-handed, caffeine-addicted Detectives. There were mysterious dents and scratches, coffee stains and something gritty and sticky on the wand – how had that last insult happened in the scant minutes since he had brewed up a latte for Mr Jones? Adding insult to injury, most of the machine's shine had been lost too. Except for a few patches that occasionally flickered with the reflected images of movement passed the window. Patches he covertly protected, polished and put to good use. Thanks to the lessons of his friend Mr Holmes, he was usually hyperaware of his environment, and there were so many _uses_ to put any surroundings too.

As he began to work on his partner's beverage, he realised that his knuckles were feeling freer to move. The pain and stiffness seemed to be fading. He held up his unstrapped hand to inspect the damage. Hmmm. Or maybe it was just that since he found himself questioning the rightness of seeing that cloaked figure in the street, in full daylight, he had felt a new lightness in himself. His aches and pains felt more manageable, and even The Angry Ferret's breathing exercises did not feel so agonising. Yes, he felt better. All over.

Thanks to his partner (partner, _yes_ ), and her wonderful use of grammar. _He_ , not it. _He_. It seemed the internal cascade of changes that little word had wrought from deep inside him was still unfolding. He smiled and flexed his less injured hand before putting it back to work on Beckett's coffee. Beans, milk, steam and ... Ah, the Zen of the Barista...

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something had just passed the unshuttered Break room window. He could see it in the distorted flash of colour that guttered in one of his polished surfaces: a deep rich red-brown that was very familiar. He turned his head, a fraction too late to identify the figure passing by, but saw O'Brien's scowl across the room as he evidently did make the identification. Devlin, his new rookie partner, just stared at the same spot with the faintly blushing and vacant stare of the young, the infatuated and the totally intimidated. There was only one person he had seen cause such a specific combination of reactions. _She_ was here... Moving quickly, he shut off the coffee machine, wiped down the wand and dumped the used grounds into the trash. 3, 2, 1 – And –

"How do you do always that?" Beckett spoke from the open door way as he swivelled in place, smooth as glass on his expensive leather soles, her coffee proffered in his hand. She had a file in one of her hands, and the other was braced on the door knob, holding the way open, and the look she was giving him was bemused, confounded. It really was adorable how her eyes widened just so, brow creasing as elegantly shaped eyebrows rose gracefully upward in puzzlement.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he returned mildly, teasing her and enjoying her reaction. He approached and handed her the heated mug. He returned for his own coffee and they exited the break room, heading for the elevator that would deliver them to Baxter. Yes, he was in a much better mood.

As the elevator carried them down to the cells however, Beckett filled him in on what he needed to know concerning Baxter and his daughter, so by the time they exited the conveyance he was once again sobered. Whatever Baxter's crime, whatever poor choice (or no choice at all) he had made to get involved with Carmichael, that did not make it acceptable that his daughter was now suffering the consequences. In no way could be it acceptable in the universe that a child should be used as a tool to punish or control. Whatever Baxter had done, his daughter did not deserve this. Neither did Baxter.

Espo's friend and mentee met them at the door to the cells. She was a tall uniformed woman with a fierce aspect, and she nodded at the cameras as she greeted them.

"He's ready. Hope you are," she commented bluntly as she unlocked the entrance and stood back holding the door. "Yell if you need me. Seems that whatever's got the cameras fritzed is affecting all the electrics down here. 'Coms' as well. Damn place needs to be totally refitted."

Then they passed through the door and were alone in the cells. Well almost.

Baxter.

Castle was surprised at the frisson of fear he felt as he regarded the man in the cold, unadrenalized, fluoro-light of day. Even though he was a few cells down still, partially hidden by overlapping layers of cage bars, this was quite unlike viewing him through the one way observation room glass when he was still fresh from battle. This was very... grounding. He breathed out. Slow and steady. A hand suddenly landed on his arm, long fingers gripping through the thin material of his pea coat. It caught his attention and he looked down to see Beckett regarding him quietly, solemnly. _Ok?_ Her eyes asked. He nodded: _let's do it_. And he stepped forwards, leaving his partner out of sight at the door.

Rick approached Baxter's cell and stopped. The man inside was sitting on the metal bed bolted to the wall, in profile to his visitor, and taking up far more space than ought to be natural. His massive hands were braced on his knees, and he was giving the far wall of bars the thousand yard stare. Pretty much like how he had appeared in Interview with the boys. Rick took a few moments, while Baxter ignored him, to take in what he could.

The man was seriously huge. In another life time, he might have been a wrestler or weight lifter or one of those barrel -chested giants that pulled trucks down the road with his teeth for _Ripley's Believe it or Not_. But this wasn't those, and here in this time, Baxter had come up hard and poor to live a life enforcing the law – either his own or whoever was paying him most. And it showed. Even from this angle the man's beetle browed visage was scarred and his cheekbone was misshapen by some past misfortune that had been left untreated. It certainly had not resulted from Rick's own trivial attempts to rearrange the man's face – there was nothing visible from where he was standing to show for his own part in that encounter. Still, there was the no-small matter of Rick getting in that lucky punch. That had to smart. Somewhere deep inside that inscrutable natural phenomenon, there had to be a bruised ego wanting assuaging no matter how tightly Carmichael was squeezing him. How often would the law-enforcer Baxter have his clock cleaned one-on -one? Had he ever? And how painful would it be to find out just _who_ had done the deed?

Time to find out.

Rick stepped forward, moving to stand at the corner of the cell closest to that fascinating far wall that Baxter was staring at. From this vantage he had the best view of his target; even the slightest twitch would be visible. He put his shoulder to the bars, nonchalant and cool, cradling his coffee in one hand.

"Remember me," Rick spoke, his voice steady and deliberate. Baxter didn't move. "No? Well, I'm not insulted. It was pretty smoky in that house, and I don't know about you but I was getting seriously buzzed. Reminds me of my college years. Well, when I say years... More my college _months_. Phew, but those were some days. I can't even recall what colour the ceiling was in that frat house." No reaction from Baxter. Rick snatched a glance at Beckett, to see her staring at him: _what are you doing?_ "Still, with Mother paying the bills, who cares right?" Rick chuckled at his own story. "What the old lady doesn't know... Long as the family name's not brought low – "

Ah! And there it was: a twitch. For a split-second, a muscle movement giving the big man away. He was listening after all. And from the momentary squint in the eye, the tightening of the corner of his mouth, Rick's story was raising contempt within the big man.

"Ah, good old _Alpha Sigma Sigma_. Those were the days."

Another twitch. This time accompanied by a subtle relaxation of the big man's body. He was still sitting, hands braced, but his fingers were no longer digging into his knees, his back no longer as ramrod straight. Evidently, being talked at by a rich conceited fop was not very threatening.

"So, I just wanted you to know that I understand how you might not remember me, well," Rick chuckled again," knocking you on your ass."

And Baxter looked at him. Outright, turned his head and _looked_. Rick smirked, doing his utmost to appear at his cocky best. Baxter stared, measuring his visitor and becoming irritated, and even more contemptuous.

"Just a lucky punch, fancy pants, "he said, and Rick was so relieved that the man's voice was every bit as deep and resonant as might be expected from the mountain he resembled. "You anglin' for Round 2? Jes' unlock that door and we can go at it. I guarantee you; you won't be so lucky the next time."

"No thanks, tempting as that offer is. Might mess up my fancy pants," Rick said, considering the man as he spoke. "I'm here to make you an offer."

"An offer?" Baxter snorted, looking all around the cells, missing Beckett tucked out of sight near the door, before looking back at Rick. "You ain't in a po-sition to make me no 'offer.' 'Lessen it's a book deal. And I ain't interested in that."

"Ah, you know who I am?"

"I know. You a rich-ass, wannabe-cop writer. And I know that's _all_ you are: you ain't no real cop, ain't no lawyer neither. You can't make me no deal. An' even if you could, I ain't interested." The big man sat back against the wall, body relaxing. "So, unless you came down here to open that there cell door and try your luck again, you can fuck off."

"O.K. Seems, I was unclear when I spoke before: I am here to make you an offer – concerning your daughter."

That had Baxter's attention. His great nostrils flared, lips tightening into a thin line, a vein rising to the surface at his temple. The smouldering coals of his deep-set eyes swung their scorching heat in Rick's direction.

"You best be on your way, writer. If you know what's good for you."

"I can't do that." Rick stared at Baxter, refusing to look away. "I'm a mystery writer. It's my thing. As soon as I get a whiff of something fishy, I just can't leave it alone. I saw you in that interview, with your lawyer Carmichael, or whatever he's calling himself right now, and I saw a whole barrel of fish. And I thought to myself, what could make a man of your calibre kow tow to a skinny _fancy pants_ lawyer? A man like you would sooner snap his scrawny neck than have him tell you to take a life sentence and not even make life hard for the cops on the way. It didn't make sense.

"But then, I thought: I'm thinking about this all wrong. I _should_ be thinking about this like a mystery, like a story, and then it all just came together. It didn't take much to dig up the details to confirm it all either. Carmichael, or at least the people he's working for, are threatening your daughter: _Monday_ is it?"

"Fuck you!"

"But, as well as not being able to leave a good mystery story unsolved, I have another problem: I can't stand by and watch children come to harm. Nope. As soon as I figured it all out, I just couldn't leave it alone. And I won't. And there is nothing you can do about it; stuck behind in that little cage you have put yourself in. It won't be long before those Detectives on your case put the pieces together, either. They are slow, I admit, but not _that_ slow."

Baxter's face was becoming volcanic as Rick continued.

"What do you want?" he growled through the bars.

"As I said, I want to make you an offer."

"What?"

"I want your permission to save your daughter."

"What?" Baxter's great brow wrinkled, adding several cracks to the mountainous crags of his forehead.

"I want your permission to – "

"What game you playing?"

"No game."

"Right. You: fancy pants an' all, gonna go up against Carmichael? By yourself?"

"Oh god no! I know serious trouble when I see it. I plan on sneaking around behind his back as much as possible."

"The _fuck_? You're playin' me now –"

"No, that is the one thing I am _not_ doing." Rick stepped in close to the bars as Baxter rose to his abominable snowman height and moved towards him. It was so strange to have to look _up_ to speak with someone. From the distance they halted at, it wouldn't take much for Baxter to reach through the bars and crush Rick like a bug. The writer didn't retreat. "With your permission, I will fetch your daughter and bring her here to you. Her mother too, if you request it. Once I have done that, in exchange for the continuing police protection of your family, you give us what you know on Carmichael and his organisation."

Baxter regarded him solemnly through the bars, his flat brown eyes tracking back and forth between Rick's blue ones. Rick stared back. Let the man think. Let him have the time.

But not too much.

"Well?" Rick prompted. "Your answer?"

"The po-lice can't protect my family."

"And Carmichael will?" Rick countered. "We have your ... what we shall call him: your brother-in-law, in custody too. What's his name: Bingo?

"I hear he's not the sharpest of tools; doesn't have the stiffest of spines. How long will it be before he says or does something that pisses Carmichael off? Then who will pay? You think Carmichael or his people care which one of you specifically causes them trouble? The threat still stands.

"You give me permission now, and I can talk my partner into keeping things quiet. We'll go in fast and have your family out and back here with you before Carmichael can react. But if we wait too long then it will all become official and noisy and people will talk, and there will be raids, and formal interviews where they ask you about your daughter, your family."

"Fuck...," Baxter's skin was starting to become dusky. He was beginning to breathe heavily, nostrils flaring.

"Your answer?"

"You can't guarantee you'll beat Carmichael," Baxter stated, phrasing it like an accusation.

"No, I can't. But I do guarantee you I will do everything I can to do just that."

"Fuck...," Baxter said again, and shook his head. "Fucking cops... Fucking _wannabe cops_..." he shook his head again. And started retreating into the cell. Backwards towards his bunk.

"Baxter," Rick called out after him. "This is a onetime offer. Right now, above our heads, the cops on your case are putting things together themselves. Once they do..."

But Baxter was finished talking. He sat back down on the bunk and the metal groaned its protest. Rick watched the man curl those great hands into fists on his knees, and that brow crease further. Silence passed in a count of minutes, rather than seconds, and still Baxter said nothing. He had resumed staring at the bars of his cage. Rick took a chance, finally, to glance at Beckett where she was listening by the door. She tapped her watch. Time was ticking away.

Something had just gone very wrong with his plan. He studied Baxter, but was met with a closed shop.

"This is your daughter's _life_ , Baxter!" Rick called after him, feeling the roughness of his voice as it passed through his vocal cords and into the emptiness of the cells.

"Yeah, 'xactly!" Baxter turned his head again, to glare at his interrogator through the bars. "Fuckin' wannabe cop. You understand _nothing_! You're living in one of your books. This ain't no _book_. This is real life!

"You think you're gonna help my kid? The fuck you know about anything? This is the way it is in my world – I know what I gotta do to protect her. It's down to me! Me! _Got it_?"

"It doesn't have to be that way!"

"Like fuck it doesn't!" Baxter snapped back, rising back to his full height and almost lunging at the cage bars. "What do you know? Just fuck off you little shit. You're pissing me off now."

"I _know_!" Rick retorted, feeling the heat in his own words as he refused to back away from the cell. He barely registered the other man's hands reached out to grip the cage bars right in front of him. "I _know_. More than you think. Sure, ok, you can do this alone. Sure. But how long can you keep toeing Carmichael's line? How long before the people around you want out? Huh? Do you think they _care_ which one of you all it is to make the first move that breaks the deal? And what about Bingo? How long until he decides he can't do the time and tries to cut a deal? How long until he talks?"

"He won't!" Baxter countered, with all the quiet heavy menace only someone of his calibre could produce. In another space, another time, Rick would have had his notepad out or his cell to record this conversation, but –

"You're going to rely on _that:_ a threat? While you are stuck in this cage? Really? And I'm the one living in a fantasy!"

"I should rely on _you_ , pretty boy?" Baxter asked, and Rick clutched at the continued conversation: if he was still talking, there was still a chance for this to work. Why else would the man keep on talking? Somewhere in that massive skull, he knew he needed more help. He _had_ to know. That just had to be the reason he was still talking. Rick tried to keep the growing desperation out of his voice.

"Not just me: my partner. She knows how to do things; how to get things done right the first time."

"A cop. Gonna help me." The disbelief dripped from Baxter's voice.

"Not you – Monday." Rick shot back.

"But only if I talk? Turn rat, right?"

"Rat? What kind of loyalty can you possibly have to a man who has threatened your child? Or is this about the Code? _Don't help the police_? Well, fuck the Code: this is your daughter! Help me save her and help justice be served to the man who would harm her."

"Justice! Oh fuck, hah" Baxter seemed genuinely amused by that, but then his eyes narrowed and grew hot again. "You don't wanna help me or mine – you wanna make a _trade_ for your cop buddies. You wanna do some _business_ to impress your woman cop, and use my kid as currency? Shit, you talk all high and mighty, but if I don't make your deal, you'll walk away same as the real-deal cops and leave me and my kid to hang."

"No, I won't. I told you I want your permission to save your daughter and I will. What happens to you both _after_ that is what is on the table. You can take your chance and run, or you can give us what we need to nail Carmichael and _save_ Monday. The hard fact of the matter Baxter, is that your daughter is caught in the middle of this shit storm, and _you_ need to get her out! _You_ need to protect her, that is your _job_. You are her _father_.

"But now you are stuck in this cage of your own making, and all you _can_ do is make the best damn deal you can to save her. So yeah, it's a trade, but the tender isn't your daughter: she's the prize. The price is your damn pride. It's your trust. It's everything that you are and thought you were. You have to give that all up to get her back and keep her safe!" The desperation was there now, roaring out of him at the giant behind the bars. And the big man seemed stunned by it. They stared at one another. Measuring, calculating. Then Baxter made to step back and Rick lunged after him, unthinking, impulsive. His fingers snagged the other man's shirt sleeve. Baxter reacted fast, on instinct, slapping Rick's hand from his clothing and grabbing back, hard. And then he yanked. Rick couldn't stop himself and slammed into the cell bars, the air thumped from his lungs and the side of his head connecting with the cage wall. He was trapped: stunned with his arm inside the cage.

There was a sudden commotion. Noise. He recognized the timbre of Baxter's voice, yelling. And there were more hands. Familiar: slim and strong and commanding.

"Baxter!" He threw his own voice into the mix, not knowing if he could be heard, not understanding what was being said around him. He just had to - "This is your daughter! You have to save her!"

His arm was free. He was being pulled back out of harms way, but all that mattered was Baxter – seeing the man in retreat, hands raised, into the depths of the cell.

No!

"Baxter!" Rick felt himself tilt as he was pulled back and his vision fuzzed at the edges. Those strong hands pulled him; he stumbled, caught himself and yelled for Baxter again. He couldn't give up now. The bastard had to step up and do what he had to do. "No, let me go!"

But then the cells were suddenly gone. The room contracted, walls and ceiling shrinking around him, closing in, suffocating. His back hit a wall behind him – too close behind him – and he felt something, a pressure, against his chest, pinning him there. Like a bug. He pushed it away, it slammed him back.

"C- _*something_ *-" A voice. So close and – ah. He felt it before he really saw it. Beckett. As he came to his senses, he realized that she had him back against the wall inside the elevator. He could feel her hand against his chest, fingers pressing in hard. Then there were more fingers, digging into his chin and pulling until he couldn't do anything else but turn and look down. And there she was, face sharpened like cut diamond in the unforgiving glare of the elevator lighting. Brilliant and shining with something - fierce.

"Castle!" She mouthed the word, and gave him a little shove. His ribs didn't like it, but the pain cut through to him, finally. The pain and the intensity in her eyes. "Rick? You here with me?"

"Yeah." There was the weight of the word on his lips, the heavy vibration in his throat and he knew he had spoken, but it felt academic. Remote. Silent. He felt brittle, like he might shatter. His partner seemed to feel it too because she kept her hand braced against his sternum even as her hand on his face slipped away. Her remaining hand was warm anchor, keeping him from floating off and breaking apart. "Here. With you."

He breathed through it. And he thought, so was she. And then the fog started to clear in his bruised brain. His head throbbed on the ebb of it.

 _They are in the elevator. There is no sense of movement. They are in the elevator, not moving._

 _Where is my coffee mug?_

How could Baxter not take up the offer of help? _Why_ could he not? Carmichael and his associates could and would take his daughter. Harm her.

Kill her.

It was unthinkable. Beyond horrifying.

Thoughts of Alexis suddenly come to him. She was a lot older than Monday, but still so vulnerable. He _still_ has to check himself whenever they horse around. But when she went through that wrestling with Da-Da phase at age two, he had to be so careful. That perfect delicate skin, those little flailing arms and reddened cheeks, all so fierce yet so fragile. He let her wrestle him to the floor, time after time, so careful to protect her as he 'fell', letting her grab and clutch and claim victory astride his fallen body. He had felt it then, so shockingly, so keenly: how mismatched they were. He could have hurt her. So easily. Even now, if she fell asleep on the couch at night, and he cradled her to his chest to make the steep ascent up the stairs to her room, he was so careful. The difference in their strength, though shrinking with time, was immense. He was so so careful.

So the thought of her, alone in the world, at the mercy of others who were so much stronger...

 _Alone in the forest..._ No. Don't go there. Not _there_. _Never there_.

God.

But, Baxter had pulled away. Refused help.

No father could do that to his child. Baxter wouldn't. Rick had seen that photograph; he saw the look in the big man's eye as he looked at his child. That was _love_. Pure and simple. But still he had pulled away.

There could only be one reason he had -

"I screwed up." Rick felt his voice, rough and thick in his throat. He rolled his head heavily against the wall, until he could look at his partner properly. As he met her eyes, her hand fell away from his chest. He sagged a little against the wall.

"No."

"I thought I could do it. Get under his skin and piss him off enough to start talking. I did something wrong."

"Castle. No," she said, shaking her head, looking at him. "You did well. I wasn't sure what you were doing at the start, but it was a _good_ tactic." She managed a smile, a fleeting and wan curl of her lips. "Except maybe: _Alpha Sigma Sigma_? A.S.S., Castle. Really?" She shook her head and reached out to press the button that would start the elevator's ascent. He felt the box they were in shiver and lurch as it began to move. "It wasn't anything you did," Beckett said. "We have leads. Good ones. We'll work them as well as we can. We'll find that girl."

"But in time?" Rick asked. Couldn't help asking. It wasn't helpful, but the words came out anyway.

Beckett had nothing to say to that, but he saw the emotions play out on her face. She was feeling this as much as he was and he appreciated her honestly in not trying to comfort him with platitudes or outright lies. He felt her squeeze his arm, then her hand dropped away and the elevator juddered to a stop. The doors opened, they stepped out. And Espo was there, his face alight.

"I don't know what you said to him Castle," Espo said, triumph in his eyes, "but Cortez just rang through: Baxter gave up an address for his kid!"

"What?" Beckett barked pushing passed Rick as he stood stunned. She took the paper from Espo's out stretched hand. "That's 20 m- _*something*_! Apartmen-, storage facilities... _*something* *something*_ warrant..."

"Papewor- _*something*_ desk!" Espo said, looking at Beckett, his words disappearing as Rick's mind tried to make sense of what the other man had just said. Espo turned to Rick, grabbing his attention with the sheer energy of his triumph. "Damn, bro, that was some good work! When all this is done, you gotta tell me what you did! Beers, The Haunt, you and me and Kev and the Boss and everyone!" And Espo was gone, racing off on some pre-rescue preparations. He turned, just before disappearing around the corner and gave a salute, ending the gesture was a finger aimed at Rick. He grinned and was gone.

"Uh," the writer managed.

"* _something* *something* *something_ *," Beckett's lips moved as she talked to herself, running her fingers through her hair in a familiar gesture that spoke of thoughts being organized under pressure. "Castle!" Beckett suddenly turned back to him, her eyes on fire with determination, but also far distant as if she had already left the building on the way to rescue the girl.

"Yes. Yeah." He blinked, trying to get his brain working. He did it! Baxter. He had - he had _done_ it! "I'll just phone Mother, let her know – "

"No. No. Castle, go home."

"But –"

"Castle." Beckett was already at her desk with Castle following along automatically. She scooped up the paperwork, slamming her laptop shut. "You're in no shape to come with us. Go home."

"But –"

" _*something*_! _*something*_!" His partner called out, and was disappearing after Espo. He watched her go, feeling shell-shocked at the whirlwind of developments in the last 30 seconds. Feeling abandoned and alone right when he should be in the thick of battle alongside his partners. Damn.

His cell phone suddenly buzzed. He thumbed the little screen.

 _KB: Thank you. Will call you. Dinner?_

Rick stared at the message. Blinked and read it again. Clutched the phone. He had _done_ it. Baxter was, right now, stepping up. He was casting aside who he was and putting his trust, and his desperation, in the people of the Twelfth. In Rick himself. The crisp unforgiving edges of the cell cut in to his palm as he swallowed around that knowledge. It was time he did the same. Time to step up, to push himself aside, and do what a father should. _Now._ No more delays.

He thumbed his cell to life again and found Alexis' details. He had the perfect text prompt in mind.

 _RC: "We came, we saw, we – "_

He didn't have to wait long:

 _AC: - kicked its ass."_ _ **Dr Peter Venkman, Ghostbusters.**_

End of Chapter

Next chapter coming very soon...


	25. Chapter 25

A smallish chapter this time. It was going to be longer, but I am wrestling with a bit of the next part, and the kids are on holidays right now, so I thought that I would post what I have to keep things moving along a bit faster.

Thank you to my amazing beta, ebfiddler, for her continuing patience and invaluable aid. Thank you! Any remaining issues are down to me.

I hope you like it! Let me know.

On with the show!

Chapter 25

The doors were locked.

The windows were fastened.

Eduardo was on shift down in the lobby.

There were two of New York's finest by the front door, eating huge bear claws and drinking the finest coffee he could find on his way home.

The loft was quiet.

All was well.

Evening was beginning to draw its long dark wings across the windows, washing the manmade glare of the city through its gauzy charcoal filigree so that the loft's living room was cast in an ever deepening shadowy lacework. The dominating source light for the room was now coming from the huge flat screen. The Hitchcock classic _Spellbound_ was flickering brightly across its broad screen, the cast mouthing their lines in silence as they played their parts. Rick had opted not to turn on the teletext as the quiet of approaching night filled the loft because it felt strangely wrong to interrupt the calm it seemed to be bringing to his two red heads. After hours of coddling him, herding him out of his office, feeding him, endlessly reminding him to do his breathing exercises and hovering, hovering they were finally content. So with the volume lowered, he was left to fall back on memory to fill in the words exchanged on screen, which was no problem – he had seen this film so many times he could recite the script in his sleep. Ingrid Bergman. Gregory Peck. Elegance. Murder. Mystery. Love. Thrills. A sweeping, soaring violin orchestral score that Alexis loved, and made his mother sigh wistfully and claim longings for a time she was too young to remember. Rick suspected it might have more to do with a bond of suffering between two actresses that had shared the burden of unwed motherhood when such things were notable and frowned upon. He knew to keep his mouth firmly shut about those kinds of speculations.

Regardless, it was a family favourite.

And besides, he had a lot on his mind and the movie was carrying on very well without him.

Rick was sprawled on the sofa, a sinfully soft russet angora rug tangling his legs at Alexis' insistence, and a glass of his finest liquor – _once again_ – at his Mother's. At the other end of the couch, the lady herself was nursing her own glass, new manuscript lying forgotten across her lap as she watched the movie, enraptured. And across from them, legs tucked under her as she sat in an armchair a text book open in her lap and more stacked on the arms of the chair along with some hot buttered popcorn, Alexis was dividing her time between the mysteries of the physical Universe and the flirtatious scholarly discussion of the mysteries of love between Peck and Bergman as they strolled through country fields. Rick watched Alexis pore over the text book for a moment as something caught her interest. It never ceased to enthral and mystify him, how his daughter had found her niche within the hard sciences. The sciences, hard or soft, had never been his _thing._ It was more than just not possessing the mathematical brain required to appreciate the mystery and beauty of the physical world in the way those who did have such a mind could. His mind needed something else, another way of understanding. His language to describe the universe was found in words, prose, and poetry. With words he could explore and discover, find his own awe and grace, mystery and intrigue, and lose himself in _possibilities_. So he took a sip from his glass and left Alexis to the numerical discoveries awaiting her within the covers of her physics text. Instead, he glanced for the umpteenth time at his cell phone, looking for some very particular words, from a very particular person, that he had been waiting for all afternoon. The silence of his cell was distracting him endlessly – first from his afternoon of readying himself to turn from hunted to hunter, and now from Ms Bergman.

A sudden sharp flick against his nose.

He looked up to see Alexis scrutinizing him, more popcorn loaded in one raised hand. He lifted his eyebrows at her and watched her dump her ammunition back in the bowl on the arm of the chair. She suddenly flicked her hands out in front of her like she was throttling a motorbike, raised a closed hand to her ear, grimacing in query.

 _Beckett called yet?_

He shook his head.

Her hands fluttered through a series of secret signs. _Don't worry Dad, she will. You can relax._

He grimaced to himself. Relax? How could he do that? He was on edge, despite allowing his mother and daughter to coddle him for hours, and he definitely could _not_ relax. It was getting worse too the longer his cell remained quiet and he was forced to hold himself back from making first contact. Beckett would be busy. Still. But, there had been more than enough time for Baxter's address to have been visited. More than enough time for Baxter to be reunited with his daughter. There had been ample space now for statements to have been taken. Yet his cell was quiet. He knew Beckett would contact him when she could. Soon as she could. He knew it. Yet, his palms crawled with the urge to seize his cell and type.

He needed a distraction.

Something more than the passivity of a movie.

Beckett had promised dinner. He glanced at his cell, noting that it was well and truly time for a meal, and decided that he could occupy his mind by locating something suitable for them to eat. All the _possibilities._ Out or in? She would be exhausted, but wired. Probably would want to work off some of the buzz of the day, wind herself down. So, out then, but not too far away. He needed to be close to home. So... he could bring her food to the Precinct? He could. Home cooked or not? Remy's? Or Italian? Greek? Korean? Chinese?

Chinese. Always a winner for both of them.

Ah.

He knew the _perfect_ thing!

He scooped up his phone and started searching, ordering, organising. By the time his cell did buzz with the long awaited words, he was ready.

 _KB: Wrapping up. Be done in 30. Dinner?_

 _RC: Yes. Stay there, coming to you._

 _KB: Sure?_

 _RC: Sure. Don't move! On my way._

CASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLECASTLE

Rick's arms, hands and bruised ribs were afire from the weight of the bags he was carrying, but he gritted his teeth and made it into the privacy of the precinct elevator, before giving in and lowering them to the floor in a controlled drop.

"Oooow!" He breathed out the groan, relieved to have been able to hold it in and maintain some dignity in front of the Precinct's front desk and the other police milling about. When he could straighten up again, Rick jabbed the control panel and felt the elevator shiver as it began to ascend. He breathed out, steeling himself, and managed to scoop up the bags as the doors jerked and shuddered open and spilled him out into the bullpen. It was after hours, not as many faces and a few adjoining offices were dark, but there were enough people around wanting greetings that Rick had to take longer that he would have liked to make his way to where he needed to be.

Finally, there they all were: his partners. He hurried over to their cluster of desks, as much to deliver the presents he had brought as to have a chance to relieve himself of the painful weight of them.

"Dinner!" he said, by way of alerting them to his arrival, and with that word he could now deposit his load onto the nearest desk. And try not to collapse right on top of it.

"Dude!"

"Bro!"

Espo and Ryan were suddenly crowding him, elbows out, wedging him aside none too gently to dig into the bags like they hadn't eaten in weeks. Rick let them muscle him aside without rejoinder because he could see in their body language a victory long fought and hard won. Then Ryan was right in front of him, chopsticks in one hand and two bulging cartons of noodles and rice in the other. He was all grins, clutching his spoils.

"Thanks Castle!" Rick watched Ryan lips as he over pronounced the words.

"Dude, what are you doing? Cut that out." Espo shoved Ryan with his shoulder, his own hands full of take out. "Castle didn't need that last month, he don't need it now!"

"Hey, I am just thanking him for the food!" Ryan retorted, cheeks flushing.

"Man!" Espo huffed, pushing his partner away to their desks, before becoming distracted by the approach of another detective. "Hey, Hanrahan, get your mitts offa those bags!

"Yeah, anyway, thanks Castle. For Baxter too dude. We got 'em – _all of 'em_. Boss will fill you in. Captain wants to see you too, tomorrow. He's impressed with what you did with Baxter. And we need to have a beer." And he was gone, attention taken by his cartons and Rick's eyes slid to where they had wanted to stray since arriving in the bull pen.

"Castle!" Beckett called out to him, from her desk. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and he could see more red in the whites than he would like, but she was _glowing_. He approached with lightness in his feet; drawn to her welcoming harbour. It was clear he did not have to ask if they succeeded, only await the details.

"You found Monday!" he prompted as he reached the desk and sat gingerly, stiffly, in his chair, feeling achy, but also like he had won some invaluable treasure. Beckett nodded with a pleased incline of her head and a quiet, slow smile. Long strands of hair fell across her face and he had to reign in an impulse to brush them aside when she didn't. He wondered suddenly if she was just too tired to make the effort, and finally his family's need to coddle and hover became clear.

"We did. Right where Baxter said we would. She's fine. Everyone is fine," his partner said in that minimalist way of hers. The one that said everything he _needed_ to hear, but left him _wanting_ for the details.

"And Carmichael?"

"Baxter kept his word. We have him." They regarded one another for the space of heartbeats and he saw the moment that the adrenalin finally began to ebb. As if finally voicing those words was what she needed to feel the reality that it was over. She looked suddenly very tired and vulnerable. "Castle, what you did today,–"

"Just glad to be useful." He shrugged, finishing for her as she hesitated, and felt stupidly pleased when he saw the agreement in her eyes – _useful_ , to her. He hesitated himself. She was tired, he was hurting, and it probably was not the best time to blurt out: "We – we make a good team."

"We do." She concurred, with a small bob of her head, and he was floored. For a good long second he didn't know what to say. But it was probably not the right time to also blurt out (for a second impulsive time that evening):

"Have dinner with me!" Rick watched her eyebrows climb her forehead as she registered what he'd said – and probably how he said it. _Oh crap!_ "I – I mean, you have to tell me what happened! I need details Detective. Leave nothing out!"

Beckett was quiet. Processing. He watched, feeling as if he had just pushed things too far. But it had felt right to ask. In the moment. He really didn't want to go home; he didn't want to leave her, _them_. Not yet. They _were_ a good team (all of them). He could feel it more intensely now than ever before. And it changed something: his decision to accept her immediate help with his unsolved mystery suddenly felt less like it was being fuelled by grim necessity. He felt the change, the pendulum swinging from something born of desperation and need, to something ... warmer, something hopeful, something _shared_.

He didn't want it to end with the delivery of take out.

"And this is the part where you say, like a normal person: _yes, I'd love to have dinner with you_!" Lanie suddenly appeared from behind Beckett and Castle nearly jumped out of his skin. Beckett did jump, jerking in her seat, sending her friend an irritated, flustered look. "Come on girl, it hasn't been that long between drinks. Say it with me now: _yes-_ "

"Lanie!" Beckett squawked. Then, tried diversion: "You're working late."

"Yes, I am. But look at you, all finished up for the evening." Lanie squinted at Beckett's computer screen, over her friend's shoulder, and reached out to tap something. Beckett made some indeterminate sounds, or words, of protest Rick couldn't hear or decipher, but Lanie did. "Ok, let's be more practical then: you need to eat and Writer Boy is paying. Right?" She turned a shrewd glare on to Rick. He nodded.

"Of course. Goes without saying."

"Then it's settled." The Medical Examiner nodded, pleased with her work. "You two go have some food. Have some _fun_. You both look like you need some of each of those." Beckett opens her mouth. "Uh huh, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. Can't it, Javi? Kevin?"

Rick and Beckett turned to look in unison.

"Yeah. We've got it covered," Ryan said. There was red sauce on his lip and an amused glint in his eye. "Carmichael isn't going anywhere, and we can handle the rest of the paperwork."

"Sure." Espo grunted as he wilted under Lanie's stern gaze. He scowled around his next mouthful of noodles.

"Good," Lanie said, with satisfaction. She gave Rick and Beckett a tough look. "I swear you two are going to be the death of me. Now, go!

"But-" Beckett stuttered, but Lanie it seemed, had already decided that that was that and her attention was already taken by something else.

"Javi where is this heavenly food you called me about?" Lanie suddenly called out to where the boys are sitting at their desks behind Rick. She narrowed her eyes: "Hanrahan, don't you even think about it! Just keep on walking, honey. Uh huh, that's it. Off you go – "And Rick lost first her words, and then the melody of her voice as she disappeared behind him to fend off the interloper and find herself some food.

Rick didn't wait another second. He forced himself up and out of his chair and snagged Beckett's coat from the back of hers. She hesitated, but then she was rising, taking the coat and slipping it on.

"No burgers Castle." She said, sounding more herself, regaining their usual ground. He watched her thread her burgundy scarf around her throat.

"No, no. No burgers. Promise."

End of chapter.

In the next one: a dinner and its time for Castle's personal mystery to take centre stage.


	26. Chapter 26

Apologies for how long this chapter has taken to appear, but life has been a bit hectic of late. Apologies to **theputz913** especially for not getting these two to their dinner yet. I have written and rewritten the dinner and I am still not happy with it. So rather than drag anything out any longer, I am posting this with a promise to post the dinner as a separate chapter as soon as it is ready.

There is some Chinese language used here, thanks to various internet free translations and Firefly/Serenity. I haven't put in the translations because this is from Beckett's point of view and she cannot speak Chinese - and the gist of the little that appears is all that is needed to follow what is going on.

I have posted this without Beta, so all mistakes are mine. Please let me know if you see anything unforgivable that I should edit.

Onwards!

Chapter

Outside the Twelfth the evening had taken the city within its cooling grasp, and a light breeze laced with an uncomfortable chill was now flowing along the street, bank to bank between the rows of buildings. With a shiver, Kate zipped closed the last inch of her black leather coat, bringing the metal tab snug against the knotted scarf at her throat. She pushed both hands into her jacket pockets and hunched her shoulders. Better. Behind her, arriving a step later after pausing to greet yet another face he knew, this time from Traffic, Castle was stepping out into the night. She watched him shiver and hunch into his own coat, turning up his collar.

Not fifteen minutes earlier, her partner had lumbered into the bullpen, crooked arms laden with straining white plastic bags, and cheeks pinked between aging bruises from an effortful journey through the cold evening air. As she added the final words to her report, her eyes gritty and heavy, she had slowly begun to register his progress across the bull pen. She watched him as he stopped to talk to some of the late shift Detectives and admin staff. More than a few marked their interaction with the writer with a strange stiffness and a new awkward brevity she had not seen before. Castle breezed through it all though, as usual, with his best buddy grin and smooth banter, but Kate felt a disquiet rise up from within as she looked on. They knew, of course, about his hearing. The entire Precinct, whether they were hooked into celebrity news or not, had heard by now and it would seem that more than a few people did not know how to handle the revelation. Even some of those who had been trading small talk with Castle for months before the news broke seemed to be at a loss. She winced as a young Uni fumbled through an exchange with her partner, seemingly caught uncomfortably between awe of his celebrity and some sort of confused pity. But, despite Castle's evident attempts to reassure him, the young man continued on to fumble himself into a blush and then disappeared down the corridor to Records with a convenient stack of case files. She bit down on her lip, irritated and pained on Castle's behalf, but knowing that male pride dictated that she could not overtly interfere. For now, anyway... Until she could no longer stand it, and was able to corner those offending colleagues when Castle was not around.

Her partner finally reached them, and once the boys were done with their feeding frenzy, she had called him over and he came quickly as he usually did. Eager and ready. Those awkward conversations had already clearly been cast aside as he sank down into his chair with a relieved huff. Before she could say another word, however, she was pinned in the bright beam of his total attention: prompting her for news on the girl and ready to hear what had happened after she had sent him home. There was so much to tell him, but despite the post-victory high she was so strung out on spent adrenalin, harsh fluoro lighting and screen glare from her lap top, insufficient caffeine and so many long hours spent in hot pursuit of this case, that she found herself answering his questions with an unintentional terseness; stripped down to the essentials. As usual he was not deterred. Instead, his expression took on a familiar glee that told her that he was going to pester her for those missing details _immediately_ until she was ready to explode. She was abruptly taken with how _right_ that was. The image of him in _his_ chair, so utterly openly pleased and keen despite his own fatigue, his blue eyes gleaming with a deep felt delight and the promise of imminent pestering. It transformed him wholly back into the partner she had been missing for days.

She wondered if he knew just how he appeared when he was on the scent of a mystery. It was just so – so - unguarded. And now that she knew he was usually working that glib public persona, moments like these when he entirely forgot himself were probably when she had been unknowingly seeing _him_. For _months_. Right there in front of her. All that time. So she was going to blame this deadly cocktail of revelation, fatigue and post-case high, for what happened next.

 _"We – we make a good team."_ He had stumbled into that statement, tripping over his own words. And she was so caught up in that heady mix that had the instinctive shield she held up against the world unconsciously lowered, that she had fallen into her own candid, spontaneous:

 _"We do."_

 _We do._ She hadn't meant to let that out. She never let that sort of sentiment out. At least, never without making him work for it; not without having a quick exit ready to escape the moment. But then - _we do_. It just slipped out.

And she didn't take it back.

She didn't even attempt to.

And he had looked so damn surprised. Speechless, even. Then his expression changed and he was asking her to dinner and _looking_ at her, right at her. That open look of his had layered into something ... else. Something intimate and, _oh god_ , tenuous and wistful, but also suddenly determined. Born of the whole new understanding that had blossomed between them, that was clear in his eyes. The huge dimensions of it radiating out from him like an oncoming tsunami were frankly overpowering, and she suddenly wanted to run away and hide. But instead, thanks to Lanie refusing to let her, they were here in the street, about to have dinner. Together. Alone.

She cocked her head up at him, covering for herself with a purse of her lips and an irritated hurry-up poised on her lips. He didn't see her. Instead, he was looking around the steps and the broad sweep of the street, lingering over a cluster of people far off in the distance. For all the world he appeared as if he was just taking in the night, except for how she could see in his eyes that he was surreptitiously and methodically picking apart the entire scene; searching with an expression too serious to be hunting even for paparazzi. Alert for _him_ she knew that now: that illusive murderous figure in the forest. The one that never had come to his City, and probably never had been going to. And yet, her partner was still looking for him, keeping his solitary watch. It bit into her, the story it told of an unending aloneness that had nothing to do with his hearing, and that she would never have thought to associate with the effervescent Richard Castle. There was a novel in there; in the burden of always being apart, alone even in a company.

That was something else they had in common.

Her mother's murder had forever separated her and her father from the rest of their world; from the life they knew to the one that they had to learn to live with. They both struggled with it and her father eventually imploded with grief, sinking into drunkenness, and she had become set further adrift from what had been. Alone on a dark and cruel sea. That final separation had felt so much like another death that she had put up a shield between herself and everything else, a wall that was impenetrable and fierce and immune to further loss; and she went on. Alone. And went too far alone, trying to solve her mother's murder, to bring back what had been taken so violently, to restore first her father and then the world. Even if it was going to be, as it clearly _was_ in the end, the death of her. Her therapist had given her the ability to articulate it as clearly as that. He had supplied those crucial words. At first she just simply did not believe them, but time and repetition and another crisis that lead to threatened disciplinary action from her Captain eventually showed her their truth. She was thankful for those words now; thankful that someone had stopped her downward spiral when she could not. But, while those words had made the now easier to live in they had not brought back her father, nor her world. Nor brought justice for her mother. She was still alone. Even in company.

She suddenly couldn't stand it.

Not tonight.

Tonight should be about celebrating a victory. A solved case. The return of a stolen child. A family reunited. The bad guys on the back foot. It should be about the telling of a great story to her partner and seeing him light up with the hearing of it.

It should be about something shared.

"So, where are we going?" she said as she attempted to interrupt his anxious search and her own discomfort with a companionable nudge. As if her words or her touch could put the brakes on decades of fear and habit – for either of them. Yet still she found herself trying. For herself, and now him.

"Uh?" He took a moment to incline his head towards her when his gaze refused to part with the street until he had satisfied himself. "Uh, oh. Where are we going? It's not far," he told her, suddenly rising to her question, lightness back in his eyes as he read her inquisitive, impatient expression. "It's good, I promise. Wonderful ambiance. Quiet. Fantastic food. Wine. Beer if you prefer. And coffee. All the tools I need to pry those case details out of you, Detective."

 _Detective_...? Not _Beckett_? She noted the title he had used for her; the absence of his usual flirtations or innuendo laden teasing. So, maybe she wasn't the only one feeling a little skittish tonight.

"And no burgers," she warned him, softening the statement with a mock glare.

"No burgers," he repeated, flashing her an answering smirk. "Though, uh, I do need to make a stop on the way. Won't take long."

Skittishness settled Kate and Castle walked, side by side, away from the Twelfth. They slipped into the loose collections of people along the sidewalk, blending into the swirl of the city's dayshift as they all headed out into the city looking for a drink, an evening meal; something to book-end the day before the long trip home.

Despite the height difference, they fell into step with one another without conscious thought as they wended their way to Castle's mystery destination. Kate glanced down, watching his expensive leather loafers and her own black biker boots, striking the pavement in time with one another as had been their inexplicable custom almost from day one. It was such an ingrained habit, it was impossible to tell if it was him shortening his stride, or she lengthening hers that always brought them to this intuitively shared space. Maybe it was both.

They walked on for a minute when Kate suddenly felt more than saw, a movement beside her and watched Castle fish his cell from his pocket and peer at it. He huffed a laugh. His face creased in sudden delight as he typed his reply, his pace slowing as he did so. She followed his lead and reined in her stride.

"OK, Castle," Kate declared, feeling her own face creasing with a frown of amusement and curiosity. She stepped closer as they walked and, so she could avoid removing her hand from her pocket, she batted at his flank with her elbow for the second time that evening. He looked at her. "What gives? You've been getting messages and frowning, or laughing, all day!"

"Uh, it's Alexis," he replied easily, turning the cell so that she could see the messages on the small screen.

 _AC: "To a father growing old –"_

 _RC: "-nothing is dearer than a daughter."_ _ **Euripides.**_

"I kinda had that one coming," he said as she read. "It's a way to keep in touch. We use quotes that we both know. One sends the first half and the other completes it."

"And," she nodded, looking up at him to let him see her reply," a correct completion is the 'ok' signal?"

"Precisely!" he replied, sounding out of proportion-pleased with her insight. "If it is incorrect, or there is no reply or no message prompt, I know she needs me."

"Clever," Kate said, and meant it. And it was, even if the reason for having this code at all was just - Wait – "Euripides? Ancient Greek playwrights, Castle? I never had you pinned as a reader of classics?"

"You know Euripides?" Now her partner just sounded astonished. And so utterly, utterly thrilled with her. For the sake of pride, she hoped she hadn't sounded the same over his revelation that he also knew of Euripides.

"I read a little. In college," she responded, trying not to laugh at his wide-eyed astonishment. She watched him suddenly swallow.

"Well, Detective, you just keep on unfolding like a flower." He managed to say after a long moment, a seriousness in his tone that made her feel skittish once again, and she reactively searched out the safer ground that was found within an eye roll. "I have to confess though: that one is on Alexis," he said, suddenly jovial again (was she that transparent?), "she's taking some extra credit classes this semester and reading some of the classics. Shakespeare, The Greeks, and others. She liked that particular quote." She felt him looking at her, a smile back in his voice. "But you, my dear Detective, are just full of surprises. You are by far the most fascinating muse I have ever had the good fortune to be stimulated by. Ow! I meant to say inspired by! _Inspired by_! Apples! Apples, apples, apples!" She released her sudden pinch on his arm and he rubbed at the spot. "Owowow!" He tried again, comically hard, for wounded though she hadn't grabbed him that hard. He flapped his injured wing at her, pouting, and she hooked her hands into the crook of the offended limb pulling it close, trapping him there. She kept him captive, her fingers finding channels of warmth in the creases of rough fabric at his elbow, in the press of his arm against her side.

"Quit while you are ahead, Castle," she admonished him as she shook her head, "it's getting cold out here and you promised me dinner." After a few strides, she realized that she still had hold of him. She froze, and began to pull back when she felt him resist and instead press her grasping hands further into his side, into the warmth of his coat. The movement was subtle and tentative, but determined. She risked a glance upwards and saw him only in profile as he continued to look ahead, as if nothing was happening between them. As she was contemplating what to do, the fingers of his casted hand made sudden fleeting contact with the back of one of her hands; she felt the passing brush of his skin and the hard edge of the molded cast. The message, the entreaty in his uncharacteristic diffidence, was clear and unambiguous: _please stay_. But he wasn't going to try to force it, nor draw attention from passersby, _oh how well he knew her_ , and she could leave go of him and pull back. She could let him go. She _should_ let him go.

She didn't.

Until she realized where they were going...

"Hey!" Kate demanded, slithering her hands free from his coat. She was pretty damn sure she had been clear that in no way was the evening to include burgers – and certainly _not_ Harry Xiao's!

"What?" Her partner somehow had the temerity to look baffled, and a little bereft as he stood there holding out his abandoned arm as if she was still hanging onto it. Then he shook his head. "Oh, no, no. No, it's ok. This is the stop I told you about. Come on, it won't take long." Before she could say another thing she was watching her partner duck into a familiar Alleyway. Deep within its recess, an equally familiar fluorescent light flickered, beckoning unwary, hungry travelers.

Damn.

For the second time in her life Kate entered Harry's dubious eatery. And as was his habit, Castle held the door for her as she entered, as though he was trying to channel Cary Grant or Gregory Peck. And as usual she let him; indulged him, she told herself. She was immediately plunged into a fog of humidity, flavored in equal parts with old grease, fried onions, decaying plastic and industrial cleaning products. She tried not to breathe in too deeply. Unlike Castle, who had slipped into the small seating area alongside her and was heartily inhaling the fumes with a beatific smile.

Inside the windowless shop (empty of customers at the moment – how surprising...), there was seating for ten on plastic molded chairs, in faded pastel pinks and blues, around three linoleum topped tables spaced out along the walls. Upon each table was a napkin dispenser stuffed full of neat white sheets, alongside a small red cylindrical container from which poked plastic chop sticks, spoons, forks and knives. And behind the tables, below the wide board that listed Mr Xiao's unique burger creations by number and picture, an unmanned counter top with its cash register, small black board and stubby white chalk, and a large fat golden toad biting down on a bronze coin. The stone amphibian stared out at the tables and front door through glaring red eyes, as if commanding customers to enter and make a purchase. As he approached the counter, Castle reached out his splinted hand and gingerly patted the squat little statue on its head with his fingertips. Then -

" _Nǐn hǎo! Diàn zhǔ_!" He roared with no warning whatsoever. Kate jumped, her hand darting to her firearm.

"Damnit, Castle!" she hissed at him, which was useless, but anger and a racing heart made forget that he wouldn't hear her. And he was oblivious, staring into a doorway behind the counter - from where, Kate now registered, there came the typical sounds of an active kitchen, and the distinctive, reedy jingle of music being squeezed and distorted through old radio speakers. Alongside the noise, an intensely greasy, meaty smell was also floating their way.

" _Chū lái! Zhè shì -_ " she almost cringed as her partner went on to send another, much longer, rant into the kitchen. The clanking and banging suddenly ceased. In the silence, the tinny music cut their air like a scream.

"Castle -" Kate started again, grabbing his arm, but was this time was annoyingly shushed by a wave of her partner's hand, and an oblivious grin. She watched him turn back to the doorway and take in a breath for another turn imitating a parade sergeant when the top of a white cap, tufted at the edges with scruffy black hair, slowly appeared around the doorjamb, quickly followed by a pair of wide staring eyes.

" _Ta Ma De_ , Uncle! You _hundan_!" A thin aproned young man, the owner of the scruffy hair and hat, suddenly spilled out from around the doorway, his expression shifting rapidly from fright to chagrin. He pulled the rumpled white cap from his head and wiped it over his shining face. " _Kao!_ You gotta stop pulling that truancy cop _go-se_."

"I'll stop when you stop bunking off school to flip burgers, Darcy! Which from your reaction just now you are still guilty of doing. And what sort of language is that to use in front of a lady?"

"Wha- Oh shi- I mean, sorry. Oh, hey I remember you!" The young man rambled staring at Kate, his cheeks flushing with teenage self-consciousness. "I mean – uh." His skin took on a deeper shade of pink as his eyes involuntarily tracked downward, then shot back to her face with a startled, mortified blink. She remembered him too from her one and only previous visit. "Ooooh! She's... She's with _you_ , Uncle?" There was the beginning of awe in the young man's eyes now, a glimmer of it through the embarrassment. _Oh brother..._

"Er," Castle looked a bit mortified himself as he glanced in her direction. She could virtually see the inappropriate comment that he had been about to make as he registered the young man's admiration and instinct demanded a confirmation. To his credit, however, he bit the words back. "We're sort of _with_ – each other – right now. Tonight. Here. Sort of. Ah-hem. Let me introduce –"

"Hey, what happened to your face, Uncle?" The boy suddenly refocused on Castle.

"Huh?"

"Your face. Uncle. What happened?" The boy repeated the words, more clearly this time, breaking up the sentence into chunks. He added a circular movement of his hand around his own face.

"Ah. Oh, you mean this?" Castle, shamefully obvious about his happiness at escaping the previous question, made a show of dismissively waving his unstrapped hand at his bruises. "All in the line of duty, defending this our fair city against the criminal underbelly. It sometimes carries serious personal risk, but –"

" _Ā._ Rick!" Another man, an aged image of Darcy, suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was sporting the same cold wind-swept look that Kate and Castle were modelling. " _Wǒ yǐwéi wǒ tīng dàole shēngyīn!"_ He smiled as he came to the counter, then looked horrified as he evidently saw the state of Castle's face. But, a beat later he saw Kate and his face broke into a huge smile. "Ah, ah. This is the good news, isn't it?" He switched into English, his accent a strangely pleasing blend of something like Castle's native diction and his own Chinese heritage. He hurried around the counter top, momentarily disappearing behind a higher division board, then reappearing beside them.

"No, Uncle-" Castle suddenly spluttered, his face turning a similar shade of red to the teenager not moments ago. "I – _Ow_!" Her partner suddenly yelped as the older man poked him in the arm.

"Have you forgotten your manners: introduce me! Introduce me! _Dong ma_!"

"Uh, Uncle Harry, Darcy, I would like to introduce you to Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD. Beckett, this is my dear friend: Mr Harry Xiao. He is the owner of this fine establishment. And his son, Darcy, that you have already met of course."

"A _Detective_? Ah, this is good. You will be able to keep this one in line. He is a good boy, but he can be quite naughty; quite a handful. He doesn't listen and he is in need of some discipline, someone to tell him _no_ , but I think that is no trouble for you. A police Detective! This is very very good. Very _respectable_. Yes. Yes." Harry Xiao beamed giddily, his eyes shrewdly assessing, as they shook hands and the penny dropped for Kate: he thought he was being introduced to Castle's girlfriend or maybe even his _fiancé_! And Castle's eyes were round with mortification. Their eyes met over Harry's salt and pepper head and, as the man went on _and on_ oblivious, she glared: _say something to your friend! "_ I told him: _don't give up, Rick_. That is what I said to him all the time: don't give _up_! He must remarry, and not just for the sake of his daughter, but for _himself_! It is not good to be alone in this world. He must find someone to pass his days with and his fortune: a good person, a good _match_. And so she will also be good for Alexis! He doesn't have to try to have the one without the other! He has made his money, he is a man of _substance_ , a good good man, and so I keep saying to him that we can all see it – he is ready! Yes. _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."_ Oh my god, he did not just quote _Pride and Prejudice_ at her! "And so it is. Ah! A Detective! I have to phone my wife -"

 _CASTLE! NOW!_

For a second, the writer looked utterly stuck. Caught between two equally daunting prospects. But then he snapped out of his stupor and gently, but firmly, grasped Harry's arm.

"Uh, Uncle... Detective Beckett is my _muse_."

"As it should be. It's the sign of a good match, Rick. And I knew it the moment I saw her: she has your number!" He had his cell phone in his hand. "Darcy – tea for our guests!" And the boy ducked back into the kitchen. He grinned at Castle again, then Kate: "You will have handsome babies! And pretty ones too. Lots and lots of fat handsome pretty babies! Ha ha!" He held the phone up to his ear.

"No, no! Oh god - No, please don't call Aunty!"

"Mr Xiao," Kate interrupted, gently, politely but resolved to do Castle's dirty work as he floundered, hopelessly.

"Call me Harry, please!" The elder Xiao politely lowered the phone and gave her his full attention.

"Harry. I am sorry. There has been a misunderstanding," she pursed her lips at her partner, "Castle and I are not married. We are not engaged, we -"

"Oooooh." The old man regarded them both critically, then nodded slowly as if slowly weighing her words, even her herself, against some personal standard. He shrugged. "Well, these are modern times. This is America! Who am I to judge if the baby making comes before or after the ring? Rick is no stranger to -"

"Oh god, ha ha ha," Beckett blinked as her partner just let out something that sounded like an hysterical giggle. From the mouth of an eight year old girl. "Oh, is that the time? Oh, Uncle, I am so sorry the tea will have to wait until another evening."

" _Ā_?" Harry stared, taken off guard and slipping back into his first language. And Castle looked just so damn pathetic...

"Yes, I am very sorry Harry," Kate spoke up. "It was lovely to meet you, but Cas – Rick, is right, we can't stay tonight. It seems a - a _colleague_ has just got himself into some _serious trouble_ and is in need of some help before he digs himself into _hole_ he can't climb out of." She looked pointedly at Castle.

"Oh, I see," Harry said, clearly not seeing at all. Castle, however, did. And looked suitably rattled.

"Yes, ah," Castle said, "but I wanted to come in to see you before we had to –"

"- go to the rescue," Kate finished, before Castle could say or do anything else. "Which we have to do. I am very sorry Harry, this is very rude of us, but duty calls and Rick will make it up to you, very soon. I _promise_."

"Ah, I see. Well," Harry still looked thrown, but he nodded after a moment. "Well, you must go and do your duty. Duty comes first. Yes, yes, we will meet again."

And they were outside again, the warm fog that followed from the shop slivering apart between cold spears of air channeling through the alleyway. Castle let out a long breath. Kate pulled her coat shut. The sounds of the city seemed loud and pressing. Somewhere nearby a siren howled.

"That didn't really go like I was -"

"Nope."

"Never speak of it again?"

"Never."

"Right. Dinner?"

"Dinner."

END CHAPTER

The next chapter has their dinner - and more - I promise.

Love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. I have been unhappy with it. Hope it works.


	27. Chapter 27

Authors note at the end

"I thought we agreed we weren't going to speak of it again tonight?" Kate spoke to Castle's bent head as he rested it on the table between them. They were seated in one of a half dozen booths along the walls of the little Italian place her partner had ushered her into for the long awaited dinner. And it was, she had to admit, worth the wait. The restaurant was stunning. The walls were a warm exposed ochre brick; the tables draped in fine white cloth with beautiful rose-tinted cracked-glass candlelit orbs as centrepieces; and the booth seats were upholstered with rich red leather. Couples were spotted throughout the room, all dressed for an evening on the town, and a group of business men lounged in another booth at the far end of the room. Towards the back of the restaurant, near what looked like an incredibly high-end bar, two elegantly suited musicians were fiddling with their classical guitars as they took a break from their performance.

It was... Incredible. Elegant. And it had made her instantly uncomfortable. Because aside from suddenly feeling horribly underdressed in her biker boots and leather jacket, as she entered the door she had been struck with how it was all so -

It was very -

And just -

 _He knew this wasn't a_ date _, didn't he?_

"I know!" Castle had been at her back as they opened the door, his breath heated against the chilled skin of her cheek; as he totally misread her hesitation. "Amazing, isn't it? And the best part: they don't know who I am. Or they don't care. Either way, it's perfect for this evening."

Before Kate could react to that series of statements, there was a young waiter in front of them and they were lead to a table, and she promptly excused herself to head for the equally tasteful restroom. Digging around for some lipstick she kept for work emergencies, she did her best with damage control from both the evening breeze and a long day on the job.

Why hadn't she anticipated Castle's expensive tastes?

She returned to their booth, ignoring the group of businessmen as they watched her pass by with drink fuelled stares. Back at their table, she found that water and menus had been delivered. And Castle was in the throes of some - _thing_ \- as he thumbed his cellphone to break whatever connection he had just finished with, laid the object on the table, and groaned to himself.

She sat down, frowned at him and asked the obvious: " Everything ok? Alexis, Martha -."

"Yes, yes they are fine. Alexis just texted." There was an edge of a whine in his voice through the reassurances, "But, I'm doomed."

"OK, I'll bite: why are you _doomed_? Harry called you didn't he?" she prompted when all he did was continue to frown.

"Not Harry, Darcy," Castle admitted. "Harry has - He's going to -" And that was when she watched her partner tip forward until his forehead was touching the table. He rolled it from side to side in miserable denial, and she quickly moved to shift first his cell, and then the little glass jar containing the lit candle before he set fire to the table, or himself. _Oh, Castle..._ "Hey!" She reached over and tapped his head, rising exasperation making it a little easier to ignore the softness of his hair still cool from the chilly night air. Her partner rolled his head to one side and cracked open an eye to look at her. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to speak of it again tonight?" she prompted.

"Not speaking, just dying quietly in dignified silence." He let out a low tragic moan and rolled back face down.

"Castle," Kate frowned at his theatrics. "I wouldn't call what you are doing dignified - or silent." He didn't hear her and she let it pass.

"Oh," her partner moaned again, then sat up with a wince, hand fleetingly gripping his side before he slumped back in his seat. "He's going to call Marion."

"Harry's going to call his... wife?" she guessed, and frowned at him: this was going too far. The world was not coming to an end. "Come on, Castle. Don't you think you are over reacting?"

"Overreacting?" her partner barked, incredulous, as if he couldn't fathom how she did not understand. His ridiculous utter bafflement was suddenly a red rag to a bull. Having Richard Castle, King of Pulling Pigtails, on the back foot was always just too tempting to let lie. Even now.

"Yes. Over-re-acting. On one level, yes, it _was_ totally mortifying, but," she looked at him, a smirk playing on her lips as she cast out her bait, "it was also rather sweet."

"Sweet? Sweet!" Castle gaped at her, his famous language skills suddenly reduced to repeating whatever word she said last.

"Oh, come on Castle," she was enjoying getting under his skin, and watching him take hook was doing wonders for her anxiety. "Clearly you are traumatised right now, but it was sweet. You and Harry are obviously close and he cares about you; I am sure you can just explain things to him. You must have had to do this before. I don't see what the problem -" she suddenly remembered Harry's words: _this is the good news, isn't it?_ Wait a minute. Is _that_ why he was _over reacting_? "Wait. Why would Harry be so certain we were _together_ in the first place? Castle, what have you been telling him?"

"Well, not _that_ , obviously. I am not suicidal!"

"So, why would he think we were _together_?"

"I- " Castle started, eyes widened suddenly, then skittered around the table before finding Kate's face again. Was that _guilt_ in his eyes? "Harry is a romantic," her partner said after a moment, the statement slipping out with the inflection of a question. Then he rallied - "How do you think Darcy got his name?"

"You're kidding!" Kate blinked, distracted suddenly remembering the _Pride and Prejudice_ quote Harry had recited, and she made the connection: Mister Darcy, the hero of that famous Austin novel.

"Nope," her partner shook his head. "And he's lucky Darcy is his first name. Harry was going to call him _Mister_ Darcy before I managed to talk him out of it," Castle nodded, lips quirking. "I took Harry with me to the library a month or so after we met and the librarian showed him their Austin collection. It was love at first sight. I was so disappointed. Mrs Smythe nabbed us before I could get him to Crime and Mystery."

Kate shook her head at him, imagining a little brown haired boy with startling blue eyes pulling on the hand of a man that smelled like hamburger grease and cleaner and was clearly not his biological father; leading the way into the New York Public Library on a mission to share his love of words with the first friend he had made who knew the secret of his deafness. And then inadvertently introduced that man to the romantic literary love of his life. Much to his young disappointment.

 _Only Castle could own a story like that..._

As she pondered that image, the depth of the connection Castle shared with Harry Xiao became clearer and more mysterious at the same time. There were decades there. Harry had taken the struggling young boy into his eatery and then into his heart and watched him grow into the man sitting across from her. He had seen him find success as an author. He had known him when Alexis was born. Through the turmoil of two very public marriages and their very public breakdowns. And Castle had been there from the earliest of Darcy's days. All those long years of friendship, maybe even family after a fashion, hidden from the media, hidden from – from -. Wait -

"Castle, have you taken anyone - else - to meet Harry? Ever?" She watched him open his mouth and thought she recognized the beginnings of his daughter's name and cut him off. "Aside from Alexis."

When he didn't immediately respond she felt stunned.

"Castle, why di-"

"I didn't think. I'm sorr-"

They spoke at once, words tripping over each other.

"You don't have to be sorry," she said, when he didn't immediately try to speak again.

"I should have told you, him, them. Just-" he blurted the words out, and then paused again. In the silence, her thoughts tumbled.

"You didn't take Martha? Not Meredith or Gina? Castle, no one?" In a way that she would never, ever contemplate doing, he had just opened another door and let her deeper into his private world - a dearly held part, where not even his mother, nor his former wives had trodden before her.

Kate could barely conceive the circumstances where she would so easily do the same; where she _could_ do the same. The inadvertent dropping of her own defences that had lead to this evening had been purely accidental, but instead of allowing that vulnerability, that _possibility_ , her instinct had been the antithesis of her partner's. Where the unintentional revelation of his deafness seemed to have begun a slow, at times painful, process of opening up for him, her own stumble tonight had triggered an instinct to shut down. She had automatically sought to restore her defences, sticking them fast with her old friends: diversion and pretence. Castle's courage was unfathomable, humbling.

And he had just done it _again_.

"I- I don't know what to say," she managed after a moment. And that was the truth. She didn't.

"You don't have to say anything. _I_ should have said something, but I sort of didn't plan it," he went on, "the thought just came to me that we could walk there from the Twelfth. And I just thought – I just wanted to- " he said, and she remembered the fleeting brush of his fingers as they walked arm in arm along the street. She remembered the entreaty in his touch. It was clear he had felt the intimacy of the entire evening, and it had spurred him to go further, to take her even further into his world. The significance of that was just so - "I wanted to introduce you to Harry, and I just - I didn't want it to be a big deal. I should have realised what he would think. I should have told you what I was doing. But, I'll fix it. I'll talk to him."

"No, Castle, you won't," she felt the words punch free, surprising herself. But he looked so pitiful, and she was ashamed at her own cowardice. So - so, this much she was brave enough to do: " _We_ will. We will talk to him. And to Marion," She watched his surprise melt into a glow aimed squarely at her, and her resolve wavered into more business-like territory, "for the record, I still think you are over reacting, but, yes we'll sort it out."

Castle smiled. Tentative it at first, the small quirk of his lips bloomed quietly out from his mouth across his face until his eyes crinkled at the corners. There was delight there, yes, but also the familiar curl of humour that let her know she had just promised something she may regret. "I'll hold you to that, Detective."

The waiter appeared to take their orders: pasta and wine. When she had departed, her partner regarded her, a hint of mischief and a familiar smugness in his expression that told her it was her turn to have her pigtails pulled.

"So," he said, "before you tell me what I missed this afternoon, are you going to finally ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

"Beckett, I've seen you asking me with your eyes ever since I woke up in the hospital," he said, "you've been very ... tactful... and we haven't exactly had the time or the place, but I know you want to ask. You are allowed to ask, Beckett . I want you to."

"I'm... I ... OK," she didn't even try to pretend she didn't know to what he was referring, and her curiosity leapt free of the corner she had pushed it into days ago, "what is it like... Being... Deaf?"

"Straight to the point," he commented wryly, appreciatively. "That's - actually that's pretty hard to answer now that I hear it out loud. Pun intended."

"You weren't always, -."

"No," he concurred. "And I do remember the time before. At least I think I do. Did. Thought I did," he paused to take in her confusion. "Wind," he said, unhelpfully.

"Wind?"

"Uh huh, _wind_. I forgot about it. Which was ironic at the time given I was in the middle of writing _Storm_." _Ok...?_ "Gina was reading a draft for part of a chapter. It wasn't a pivotal moment in the narrative, but the scene involved the description of wind, and I got it all wrong. I got the visuals correct, but the sound... Not so much." He grimaced, the memory clearly embarrassing him. "Anyway, Alexis is my guide now. Mother too. I don't know what I would do without them. Wind, insects, mumbling, whispering, ringtones... It amazes me at times, just how much _noise_ there is in the world.

"But, to answer your question: being deaf is just part of who I am. Like being ruggedly handsome, I suppose. It just is what is." His eyebrows waggled. "Sometimes it's a burden- _the being deaf part sometimes too_ \- but mostly there are ways around it. I've had to learn to be observant. Like," he paused, more serious this time, looking around the room, "like - " he paused again, "those guys over there. The suits in the booth diagonally opposite us. What do you see?" He regarded her shrewdly, and her curiosity was burning so it wasn't a chore to go along with his request.

"Five men," Kate spoke after a moment of consideration, "typical business types in their late 20's. Reasonably successful, based on the cut of their suits. Out for a meal and a drink after work. Celebrating something. The cigars are a bit cliché, but maybe it's to celebrate a new deal?" she speculated, looking closely at the oblivious table. She watched the table rise into leers as the poor young waitress she had passed earlier, approached them, pencil and paper poised. "And they've already had one too many." She frowned. If they kept that up she was going to be paying them a visit, in an official capacity. "Maybe a few too many."

"Well observed, Detective, but note: the cocky red head there, yes, he's celebrating. But it's because he has been promoted to something in upper management, and being single he's brought his lackeys and yes-men out to celebrate. See the wine, that's an expensive Bordeaux. It's far too pricey for a man in a suit from last season's Brooks Brothers' discount rack, but it's what he believes he deserves now, part of what he sees as a sign of rising success." Kate blinked at his words. She looked harder over the lip of her water tumbler, using it for cover as she searched for what Castle was observing. Yes, she could see it now: the four other men turned deferentially towards the fifth, even as they sprawled out on the benches. And the red head, lounging back - a grand pasha receiving his admirers. The bottle was on display in before him, his property. "And the cigars, yeah: tacky," Castle continued, "there for the look. The redhead is not a big enough fish yet to think he can light one and get away with breaking the law, though he'd like to be that important - that's why he brought them. Give him enough wine and that might change, particularly if his friends egg him on. Being single, he doesn't have to be home at any particular time and the night is still very young so that may yet happen.

"His _friends_ are all single, except for the man at the back. The one right back there, against the wall. He's uncomfortable with how the night is unfolding, and he doesn't like the red head, but he needs the money and the connections so he's going to stick it out as long as he can stomach it. He's not drinking so that might not be long, particularly if these guys keep giving their waitress a hard time. He _really_ doesn't want to be here. He has a young child too, maybe a baby, as well as his wife, waiting for him at home." Kate followed his direction, and yes, the man in question was slumped a little against the wall and even though he was facing the ring leader, his body language approximating that of the other sycophants, his glass was still full in his hand and he was not participating in the increasingly ugly interaction between the others and the waitress. There was a smile on his face, but it did not reach his eyes and his cigar was in the hand that held his glass, not clenched in the corner of his mouth like his co-workers. A simple gold band glinted on his finger. She watched him touch it, his finger sliding over the metal band. Not hiding it, just holding on. She continued to examine the table as the wine arrived. She was barely aware of Castle fussing over the bottle.

"Castle! That's - impressive. But, how do you know he has a baby or a child at home?"

"You want me to give away all my secrets, Detective? If I did that, what use would you have for me solving all your cases for you?"

"You do not solve all our cases," she retorted.

"Most of - OK, half. All right, some. With a little help - from time to time."

"You're deflecting. How do you _know_?"

"Deduction, my dear Beckett!" He somehow managed to look cocky and tense at the same time. "I have studied the all the works of the Great Detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and I have _practised_." He took a sip of wine, nodded appreciatively at the taste, then looked at her, calculatingly. "Further, I bet his child is a girl."

"You can't know _that_ , Castle."

"Can't I?" He arched an eyebrow. "Care to put some money on it?"

"A wager? You have a fifty fifty chance of being correct however you claim to know Castle, and I think you are bluffing - you can't possibly know the gender of his child." She glanced back at the table, noting the waitress was gone and feeling some relief for the young woman.

"Sure, I _could_ be guessing," her partner looked like he was enjoying himself too much now, "but you want to _know_ if I am _._ " Damn, he was right about that. And not just _if_ , but _how_ he could know such a thing.

"All right Castle, but not for money."

"Something more serious, Detective?"

"Much more."

"You have my attention."

"If I win, if you are wrong about the baby, you have to agree to wear your hearing aids when you are with me - at the Twelfth _and_ in the field."

"What?" Castle choked on his water. "But why - ? I don't - Bob said... I thought we were good -?"

"We _are_ good, Castle, and I know what Bob said, but what happened with Baxter -" she paused, refusing to think on the details of the raid. "The Mayor has his agenda. I have mine. And if you want to keep on participating in our investigations outside of the bullpen, you will wear your hearing aids." She watched Castle closely as he considered. Martha had said that he didn't like wearing them, and by sheer evidence of him sitting across from her right now, he had survived many years without them. But that involved many years of writing novels, partying, and the sort of everyday life that did not involve any very real and immediately visceral risk to his life. And he had not been under her watch. Still, his immense distaste at her demand was obvious. Even though she knew he very well understood why she was insistent.

"What if I am right about the child? What do _I_ get?" He pouted at her.

"The lip is a bit much, Castle. And, I know you, you don't believe you are wrong and you will get what you can't resist: an opportunity to show off."

"You're right, I can't resist that," he mused. "All right. I'm going to win, anyway, so it's a deal. Let's shake on it, Detective!"

"Really?"

"Well, ok, we could spit -"

"Shake! Shaking is fine." She reached over the table, meeting him half way and watched his hand engulf hers as they shook on the bet. And she refused to look any less than business like about it. Castle, on the other hand, fairly glowed as he took in the same sight.

"So, how do you propose we prove your hypothesis?" She asked, as the clasp eventually ended.

"The opportunity will present itself. Of that I am in no doubt. Ah! Our entrées. You're going to love this Beckett. They make _the_ best bruschetta in the City."

"That is true," The waitress spoke with a smile, as she set down her mouth-watering burden on their table. "The secret is in the olive oil. Its sourced from Mr Abano's own heirloom variety at his family estate in California. His great grandfather brought the seeds with him when he emigrated to America. You won't find a comparable taste in the city. _È totalmente unico_! _Buon appetito_."

Author's note: it goes without saying that I am very sorry for the delay in new chapters. Life threw a few tricky hurdles my way, but I have never stopped plotting and planning this fic. I am now back in the saddle. This fic will be finished - that I promise. As usual, comments are very welcome.


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